Purge

by Sarah Darer Littman

  “Don’t listen to her,” Missy says. “She’s just jealous.”

  “Jealous?! What drugs did they put you on today?”

  Royce is still hassling Tom.

  “Why don’t you just stand up and admit that you’re a faggot, instead of trying to touch me on the sly?”

  “Why don’t you just shut up, idiot!” I shout. “Leave Tom alone!”

  I look over at Tom, who is pale and shaking. Suddenly I see a strange, determined look cross his face and he pushes back his chair and stands up.

  “Yeah. Okay. News flash! I’m gay. A faggot, as Mr. Neanderthal here cares to describe me. You’ve heard it here first, because my homophobic friend just helped me to say it out loud.”

  “Well, DUH!” Missy says.

  Wow. I mean, I had my suspicions. But I’ll admit I never thought Tom was going to come out and say it. I want to cheer.

  Tom looks down at Royce, who is sitting there with his mouth hanging open.

  “There. Are you satisfied, asshole?”

  Callie stands up and starts clapping.

  “Bravo, Tommy-boy. About time you came out.”

  I join her in the ovation. Eventually the entire table (well, except for Royce, who is looking decidedly uncomfortable) is standing and clapping. Tom’s flushed face shows a strange mixture of elation and what the hell have I done? Nurse Kay looks on, smiling. (Where the hell was she when Royce was calling Tom a faggot?) I bet this is going to be written up in Tom’s notes. But what the hell, it can only be a good thing for him to admit to himself that he’s gay, right?

  * * *

  Tom sits next to me in art therapy. He’s alternating between ecstatic and petrified.

  “It’s such a relief to have it out in the open … to finally be able to admit this to people. I feel like I’m going to float away from the lightness of it.”

  “Well, watch out if you do that, because no doubt Royce will call you a fairy.”

  Tom gives me a look. We both crack up.

  I’m busy making a figurine out of clay. The assignment is to make an image of ourselves as we would like to be. Right now I’m looking decidedly like an alien, which might be how I feel now, but sure as hell isn’t the way I want to be in the future.

  “You know, I bet it was hard work denying that there was any remote possibility of you being gay.”

  Tom laughs. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s part of the lightness — not having to spend all that energy on pretending I’m not feeling what I’m feeling.”

  He’s serious, suddenly.

  “But how the hell am I going to tell my parents? My father is going to beat the crap out of me. Then he’ll tell me he knew it all along and give the whole spiel about how he can’t believe a wimp like me came out of his loins.”

  “He never said that to you!”

  “Wanna make a bet?”

  After having seen Tom’s dad in action, and especially after Tom’s depiction of him in psychodrama, I’m not sure that’s a bet I want to take.

  “Well, you know that Nurse Kay has reported your change of sexual orientation to Dr. Pardy by now, seeing as the Walls Have Ears in this place. Why don’t you ask her about how to cope with telling your parents?”

  “Yeah … and then maybe I can act it out in psychodrama for practice.”

  “Now that’s a session I wouldn’t want to miss,” I joke.

  “Believe me, I wish I could miss it. I’m just freaked about how it’s going to go down with my parents. Well, my dad really, because I don’t think my mom will care either way. But my dad … I just know my dad will blame the fact that I’m queer on my mother.”

  “Look, Tom, if your parents’ marriage falls apart just because you admit you’re gay, it can’t have been in all that great shape to begin with, can it?”

  “Well … no … I guess not.”

  “I mean, for Pete’s sake, your dad is cheating on your mother — if you want to blame anyone for their marriage falling apart, you should blame him, not yourself, right?”

  Tom doesn’t answer me right away. He’s busy trying to reform the clay version of himself. I notice that he’s making himself bigger than he was the first time.

  “Yeah … I guess you’re right.” He looks at me and smiles. “How’d you get to be so smart, anyway?”

  I almost fall off my stool.

  “ME?! Smart? Yeah, right! You’re talking to Ms. Sock Puker here, remember?”

  Tom covers my clay-covered hand with his.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Janie. It’s something you do a lot. I’ve noticed that about you.”

  I get seriously embarrassed, like I do whenever someone compliments me. I think it’s because I feel like if they really knew me, they wouldn’t be saying nice stuff.

  “Anyway, we’d better finish these,” I say, trying to change the subject. “I don’t want the art therapy teacher to think that I really want to look like some space creature.”

  Tom gives me a look to let me know that he knows I’m trying to change the subject.

  “Yeah, and I sure as hell don’t want her to think that I want to look like Frankenstein’s aborted love child, do I?”

  * * *

  Tom talks to Dr. Pardy after lunch, and when we meet up at the dinner table later that evening, he’s looking a bit more relaxed.

  “She said she’d help me with telling my parents — that we can do it in one of our family meetings,” he says. “She said that even though this has to be a difficult thing to do, it’s important for me to live an authentic life.”

  An authentic life. I wonder how exactly you go about living one. I wonder what kind of person I would be if I were able to do it.

  “Anyway, Dr. Pardy said that I shouldn’t let my anxiety about the state of my parents’ marriage stop me from telling them that I’m gay, because although that affects me, what goes on in their marriage is really between the two of them. It’s not something that I have any control over.”

  Wow. Dr. Pardy is actually making sense where Tom is concerned. I wonder why she doesn’t seem to do a whole lot for me. I wonder if it’s because she just thinks I’m this hopeless case and it’s not worth making the effort. Now there’s a depressing thought.

  * * *

  When Royce arrives for dinner, he goes to sit at the opposite end of the table, as far away from Tom and me as possible. But Tom gets up and walks over to him.

  “I’d like to shake your hand and thank you for helping me to come out of the closet, but you’d probably think I’m making a pass at you, so I’ll just salute instead.”

  And he does. I’m pleased to see Royce looks sheepish.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Royce mutters, but apparently he’s still unable to look Tom in the eye.

  Well, baby steps, I guess.

  Nurse Kay arrives and starts distributing trays. I rip off the foil from my dinner. It’s chicken in a mushroomy type sauce, broccoli, and salad, with Jell-O for dessert. At least Starvers roundup went quickly tonight, so the chicken is still hot. I think this is the first really hot meal I’ve eaten since I came here and had to deal with that stupid rule that says we have to wait for everyone to be at the table before we can eat. It’s bad enough that we eating disorder patients have to eat separately from the other, generally screwed-up people, but I really think they should have separate tables for the Starvers and the Barfers, since we want to eat and they don’t. That way the Barfers would always get hot food instead of everything being lukewarm because some stupid Starver was off playing hide-and-seek with the nurses. Although then I wouldn’t be able to eat at the same table as Tom, and I like talking to him at meals. I like talking to him at any time, really. I almost wish he weren’t gay and that I were attracted to him. Maybe that’s something I need to explore in my therapy — why it’s so much easier to talk to Tom, who as it happens is gay, than to guys like Matt Lewis, who I was wildly attracted to — even if he’s an asshole. Or maybe it’s because he’s an asshole. Definitely to be explored
.

  I finish the chicken and move on to the salad. Tom has eaten about four bites of chicken and is sitting there staring despondently at his tray.

  “Eat up, Tommy-boy. You want out of this place, right?” I say.

  “Yeah. But if I eat all this I think I’ll want to puke. And you know that’s not usually my style,” he says in an undertone, so the Food Police don’t hear.

  I look at him, curious.

  “Have you ever made yourself puke?” I whisper.

  “Once in a while. Sometimes after soccer practice I get so hungry that I eat a lot of calories. More than I want to. So I have, on occasion, gone into the bathroom to make myself puke. I mean, if it works for my mother, why shouldn’t it work for me?”

  Why indeed. No wonder Tom feels comfortable hanging with the Barfers. He’s a closet Barfer himself.

  I’m busy thinking about Tom and his closet puking when all of a sudden I spot something awful on my tray. No, not a bug or a worm — it’s not that kind of awful. Something that’s just awful to me because I hate eating it — a slice of cucumber.

  I’ve hated cucumber for as long as I can remember. My mom can’t understand it: “They don’t even taste like anything. How can you hate them so much?”

  The answer is I don’t know why I hate them so much. I just do. It’s like asking why Harry hates eating food with any nutritional value.

  “Oh, damn,” I say. “There’s cucumber in this.”

  “So?” Tom says.

  “I hate cucumbers.”

  “How can you hate cucumber? It doesn’t even have a taste.”

  Here we go again …

  “It does have a taste,” I argue. “It tastes like … cucumber.”

  “Well you’re stuck eating it unless you want to go the Ensure route,” he says.

  “We’ll see.”

  I raise my hand so Nurse Kay will come over.

  “What’s up, Janie?” Nurse Kay asks.

  “There’s cucumber in my salad, and I hate cucumber.”

  She doesn’t give me the “it doesn’t have a taste” bull, but her answer is even worse.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to eat it anyway, Janie. Either that or I can get you a can of Ensure.”

  “But I’ve already eaten most of my meal, and I’ll be happy to eat something else instead — like I’ll eat double the amount of tomato if you’ll exchange it for the cucumber.”

  “We can swap,” Tom offers. “Janie can have my tomato, and I’ll eat her cucumber.”

  I flash him a grateful smile, but Nurse Kay’s having none of it.

  “It’s kind of you to offer, Tom, but Janie has to eat all of her own dinner. You’re not allowed to exchange meals.”

  “We’re not exchanging meals, we’re just exchanging salad vegetables,” I protest. “And it’s not like I’m trying to get out of eating or anything. I’ll have five times the amount of tomato as long as I don’t have to eat the cucumber.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Janie, but the rules are clear,” Nurse Kay says.

  I take it back. She’s not one of the good guys after all. She’s just as much of a Food Nazi as Nurse Rose and Nurse Joe and all the rest of them.

  I haven’t cried the entire time I’ve been cooped up in this place, but now I feel my eyes burn, and the cucumbers on my plate become blurry. It’s just so … STUPID! My parents don’t force me to eat cucumbers at home. Why do I have to eat them here? How is being forced to eat a vegetable that I hate supposed to cure me of bulimia? It’s bad enough having to follow the rules when they make sense — but this makes absolutely NO sense. It’s nonsensical, ridiculous, stupid, and, above all, unjust. It makes me mad. It makes me crazy. It makes me … cry.

  Tom gives my knee a comforting pat under the table — which I bet is against the fucking rules, too — but it just makes me cry more. I can barely see my tray as I stab at the rest of the salad, eating my way around the offending cukes. Tears drip from my chin onto the tray as I shovel the Jell-O down my throat, one spoonful after another, until the container is empty. And then it’s just me and the cucumbers, and I just cannot and will not eat them. Nor will I drink that disgusting Ensure stuff. They can make me sit here all night tonight and all day tomorrow and the whole night and day after that, but I’m not going to give in because it’s just STUPID STUPID STUPID and SO INCREDIBLY UNFAIR.

  “Come on, Janie. You can do it. Just hold your nose and down the hatch,” Tom says.

  “No. I’m not going to.”

  I know I sound like a Terrible Two-year-old in the middle of a tantrum, but that’s kind of how I feel being forced to stay at the table until I eat those gross, disgusting things.

  “Tom, if you’re finished, you can leave the table,” Nurse Kay says.

  “It’s okay. I’ll stay here and keep Janie company.”

  “Me, too,” Missy adds.

  I smile at her gratefully through my tears, because I know what a sacrifice it is for her, not to be able to pace around during that awful post-meal pukeless half hour.

  “Actually, I need you both to leave the table now,” Nurse Kay says.

  “What, we’re not even allowed to give Janie moral support?” Missy explodes. “That’s bullshit! That’s almost as bullshit as making her eat those fricking cucumbers instead of extra tomatoes!”

  “Missy. Leave the table NOW,” Nurse Kay, whom I now totally hate, orders through gritted teeth. “You, too, Tom.”

  “This is complete and total crap,” Missy mutters as she gets up. She picks up her tray and slams it into the tray return.

  “Hang in there, Janie,” Tom whispers as he slides out of his chair.

  It’s just me and two of the Starvers, Tracey and Bethany, left at the table. Eventually, even they finish, and it’s just me, the cucumbers, and that witch, Nurse Kay. I don’t know how I ever thought she was nice.

  She sits down across the table from me.

  “Janie, you need to eat your cucumbers and get this over with. It can’t be all that bad.”

  I sit there, tears streaming down my face, staring at the evil green slices on my tray. Now I know how Harry feels when my mother is trying to make him eat broccoli or asparagus. She always uses the “it can’t be that bad” line when he starts gagging. I used to think she was right, but now I understand that’s just because I like asparagus and broccoli. I never understood that for Harry, who’s an incredibly picky eater, every meal is like being in Golden Slopes with a tray of cucumbers in front of you. The poor kid.

  As I sit there crying, ignoring Nurse Kay and refusing to eat, I realize that it’s not about the vegetable; the cucumber’s just what got me started. It’s about the irrational unfairness of it all. It’s about having to wait for all the Starvers to come to the table when I’m starving myself. It’s about being denied phone and visitor privileges because of purging into my sock. It’s about the fact that my family will never forgive me for ruining Perfect Jenny’s wedding day — and I’ll never be able to forgive myself. It’s about Matt Lewis dumping me, Kelsey being mad at me for not telling her I was bulimic, and the look on Danny’s face when he saw me crying hysterically on the bathroom floor with puke spatter on my bridesmaid’s dress. It’s about the fact that my father will never think I’m as perfect as Jenny, and my mother will be perpetually disappointed that I don’t measure up. It’s about hating who I am and the way I look and what’s become of my life after a mere sixteen years of living it. It’s about feeling mad and sad and confused and miserable and angry and having all those emotions swirling around in my head and my stomach and wanting to purge them away but knowing I’m going to have to sit at this table until kingdom come unless I eat these goddamn cucumbers.

  Nurse Kay sighs and gets up from the table.

  “I have to go distribute meds,” she says. “But Joe is going to come and sit with you until you’re finished.”

  She goes to the door and calls down to the nurses’ station for Joe to take over the role of Food Führer.
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  I throw down my fork in protest, push back my chair from the table, and fold my arms across my chest. If they think GI Joe can sweet-talk me into eating those damn things, they’ve got another think coming.

  “What’s up, Janie?” Joe says, taking the chair across from me, turning it around and straddling it. “Why all the fuss about a few little cucumbers?”

  “Because I HATE them, that’s why! And it’s totally stupid that I should have to eat them when I’ve offered to eat double the amount of tomato or mushrooms or peppers or some other vegetable that I do like.”

  Joe takes a deep breath and leans his elbows on the back of the chair.

  “Look, Janie, I’m not going to pretend to you that I understand the reason for making you eat cucumbers. But there are rules in every institution and organization. Heck, you think this is bad? You should try being in the Marines.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the frickin’ Marines,” I shout. “I just DON’T WANT TO EAT THESE GODDAMN CUCUMBERS!”

  I burst into another round of angry sobs.

  “Whoa, take it easy there, sport. Don’t lose control of yourself over something small like this.”

  Something small? He just doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. Nobody gets me. I don’t think anyone ever will. I’m overwhelmed with despair — after weeks of not being able to cry, now I feel like I’ll never be able to stop, the sadness is so huge.

  Joe hands me a box of tissues and just sits across the table without saying a word.

  I’m just crying and crying, soaking through tissue after tissue. Half an hour passes, but I don’t even see Joe look at his watch. I wish he would get up and go to the bathroom so I could throw the freakin’ cukes in the garbage and be done with this, but Joe seems to have infinite patience, not to mention an ironclad bladder.

  Finally he says, “You know, Janie, if you just get those cucumbers down the hatch, I promise to take you to the gym for a workout later on.”

  I want to go whale on that punching bag; I want it more than anything. But I can’t do it unless I manage to swallow all six of those disgusting green discs on my tray.

  Staring at them, I realize that I can’t let myself be defeated by a small green vegetable, no matter how much I hate it. I just can’t.