Freya nodded as he continued.
‘I’ve got to be honest, I was so stressed by the end of the meal, and I know that if Iris hadn’t been there, I’d have caved in.’
She sat back, resting her head on his chest. Lockie brushed her hair with his palm.
‘It’s hard, Lockie,’ she confessed.
‘It is.’ He sighed. ‘But the point is, she ate and she kept it down. Charlotte sat with her and has made sure she didn’t visit the bathroom. They watched TV in her room, and that seems to have put things right between them.’
‘Poor Charlotte – the way Lexi spoke to her was awful. It’s not her, it’s like the other Lexi that pops up from time to time, but that aggression, the meanness . . . I don’t even recognise it!’
‘Me neither,’ he confirmed. ‘And I feel so pulled. I want to reprimand her more, not least of all for Charlotte’s sake, but I’m also very wary of not adding an ounce of stress to her. She looks so fragile, I don’t know how much more she can withstand.’
Freya stroked the back of his palm. Both sat in comfortable silence, weary.
Charlotte walked into the kitchen.
‘There she is! All okay, darling?’ Freya called out.
Charlotte nodded. ‘Yep, Lexi’s nodded off. I’m going to have a bath, then read a bit before I go to sleep.’
‘Not too late, love,’ Lockie added.
‘I know.’ She nodded.
‘Dad and I were just saying. She didn’t mean it, you know.’ Freya felt the need to point this out. No one asked her to be more specific: Lexi’s words and actions still loomed in their minds.
‘I know,’ she uttered again. ‘It’s still shit, though.’
Freya looked at Lockie, both wary of chastising her curse. She had had quite enough to deal with for one night.
There was the delicate sound of pitter-patter on the open window.
‘Be a darling and call Brewster in, would you? He hates being out in the rain.’
‘Sure. That’s me: a darling,’ Charlotte sniped. ‘Just give me an instruction and I’ll run off to do it!’
‘Well, don’t then. I’ll do it.’ Freya sighed.
‘I said I’d do it! God, Mum!’ Charlotte slunk from the room.
Freya rubbed her eyes, hating the way everyone was so angry, so emotionally taut.
Lockie sighed. ‘I miss you.’
‘I’m right here.’ She smiled.
‘I guess what I mean is, I miss us, the way we used to laugh all the time, our chat, our sex.’
‘I know.’ She closed her eyes.
‘I am tired, Freya, and Friday night was always a good night for going to bed, with no alarm set for Saturday, but the truth is I’m nervous right now, because the sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I have to wake up and face another day of conflict when we get to go through the whole thing again.’
Freya nuzzled against his chest, knowing there were no words of solace. They had a feeding routine to maintain, living under the shadow of this horrible disease; still clinging to the legs of their child while the giant bird flapped its wings and cawed in response.
The next morning, the Braithwaite family sat in silence. No one had mentioned the fear-laden warble with which Freya had called her family to the table for brunch or the tense atmosphere that prevailed. Gone was the familiar banter and noisy exchange over the table. Instead, every stilted communal mealtime brought with it an awkwardness and a tension that was a sadness to them all.
Freya felt her pulse race in anticipation as Lexi came into the room, again with her hood pulled up and her sleeves over her hands, as if she were trying to hide.
Freya had cooked the scrambled egg, crispy bacon, avocado, mozzarella-and-tomato salad and wholewheat toast with a feeling of dread, underlined with sadness, remembering when food was such a lovely part of their life. Now it felt like a taboo topic and a challenge for them all.
Freya knew she had to ask what Lexi wanted on her plate; her palms were clammy and mouth dry in advance. The way her stomach jumped meant that food was the last thing she wanted too, but she was ever conscious of setting a good example.
‘What would you like, darling? I’ve got fluffy scrambled egg, a nice salad, home-made bread, honey or jam, bacon?’ Her fake tone of joviality was as irritating as it was obvious.
Lexi shook her head, vigorously, as if all on offer was abhorrent.
‘Okay, then.’
Freya took a deep breath and spooned the scrambled egg on to a slice of toast; she would yet again have to make the decision for her.
Lockie quietly took his seat at the table.
This became their life; they were, as a family, utterly consumed, living in a bubble that kept them isolated from the real world. Lockie had refused several jobs, as he was needed at home, and any friends who suggested getting together were given a polite refusal. Carefully monitoring every morsel Lexi ate, counting every calorie she managed and preparing for her next feed was like having a small baby, but one that glared at you from the other side of the room and begrudged every mouthful.
The hospital had blind-weighed her, a neat trick of getting her to walk backwards on to the scales so as not to alarm her about her gain or her actual weight, whilst monitoring her gradual improvements. Her periodic blind-weighing saw them hold their breath, waiting to see if the number crept in the right direction, whilst trying not to let Lexi know, as any hint that she had gained would send her into a blind panic, a torrent of abuse directed at whoever happened to be closest.
Four weeks after Lexi had returned home, Freya called Iris and gave her the good news of Lexi’s current weight gain, informing her that it appeared to be stable. Their persistence was paying off: this alone made the mealtime struggles seem worth it.
‘In that case . . .’ Iris paused, as if knowing that the next instruction was tough. ‘We need to carry on with the regimen, but up her intake, increase it to around two thousand calories a day. That would be perfect.’
‘Gosh! That’s a lot. Compared to what she’s been taking.’ Freya spoke aloud her immediate thought, knowing that this might be the average for a normal functioning woman, but for someone like Lexi . . . ? It felt like a huge challenge.
‘It is, but it’s what she needs, Freya. Trust me.’
‘I do.’ Her brain whirred, trying to think of how she could further supplement the foods Lexi ate with extra calories.
So began a new phase of Freya’s subterfuge, stuffing butter into sponge cakes and dousing muesli with sugar-coated nuts and frosted fruits, encouraging Lexi to nibble soft cookies between meals, while serving ice cream–laden milkshakes in opaque drinking glasses so that the contents were harder to see.
Even though Lexi only managed a mouthful before her brain rejected the offering, every bite, every sip, caused Freya’s heart to leap with joy and her gut to twist with guilt. It was the right thing to do, but she was still deceiving her child. It was one stressful way to live.
‘Can you call Brewster in?’ Freya called from the sink. ‘It’s spitting again.’
Lockie looked up from the table. ‘No, it’s not!’ He looked towards the garden, now bathed in the half-light of dusk, and back to his wife.
‘It is, I heard it!’ She laughed, removing her hands from the sink and looking at him, as though at least one of them might be losing their reason. Wiping her hands on the dishcloth, she made her way to the back window and felt the quake that started in her knees travel up her spine. She teetered backwards, fearing she might lose her balance altogether.
‘Are you okay?’
Lockie scraped the chair along the floor and went to assist his wife.
Her eyes were fixed on the tall window of the bifold floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the den.
‘What is it?’ he repeated his concern, his tone a little more urgent.
‘You were right,’ she whispered, pointing her finger towards the garden. ‘It wasn’t rain.’
Lockie took a step closer and peered at th
e glass, now covered in a fine sticky spray. He walked forward and opened the window, examining the glass before looking back at his wife, confirming her fears.
She hadn’t been mistaken: she had indeed on more than one occasion heard the soft pitter-patter, but not of rain. Focusing on the window, she was now able to recognise the cubes of tomato, the specks of egg and fine shreds of carrot; she realised what it was that had splashed the window in the dark of night. Peering down on to the courtyard below confirmed that it had been her daughter’s vomit, launched from the window on the floor above.
They thought they had been smart, asking Charlotte to sit with her directly after supper, even covertly timing her visits to the loo. All of their efforts were to no avail, pointless in the face of this new development.
‘She’s been throwing up out of the window,’ she confirmed. ‘She knew we’d be listening out for the bathroom, checking the loo.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Lockie stared at her, seemingly at a loss for what to say next.
Freya felt her shoulders curve in distress as her tears fell. ‘I’m so tired of it, Lockie.’
With his fists clenched, he fled the room.
‘Lockie!’ she called after him.
He ignored her, tearing down the stairs towards his studio. She followed him with her hands outstretched, hoping to calm him down. She understood that this was upsetting, but knew that his rage would do nothing to help. Standing in the doorway, she watched as he flung open the doors of the tall storage cupboard where handheld lights, portable heaters, fans and background screens were folded and neatly stacked away. Pulling out a dark-grey metal box, he hauled it on to the floor and lifted the top, letting it fall open on its hinges.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, half afraid and half exasperated.
‘I’ve had enough.’ He dashed her a look as he grabbed a hammer and pushed past her.
‘What on earth . . . ? Lockie? Calm down!’
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. As is often the case with anyone who is enraged, the request for calm had the opposite effect.
She followed as he sprinted the first staircase and continued on up, past the kitchen and up towards the bedrooms on the second floor.
Without knocking, he opened Lexi’s bedroom door. Freya stood and stared, not knowing how to comment on her child’s activity, horrified to discover her sitting with her feet planted under her bed and performing rhythmic sit-ups with her arms folded across her chest. She watched as Lexi shrank back against the wall, discovered, exposed, as Lockie stormed over to the window.
‘Dad, what are you doing?’ she shrieked.
‘I’m fighting back, Lex!’
He placed a few nails between his lips and took one in his hand, then drove it with the hammer through the base of the sash window, straight through the window frame, down into the windowsill. Plucking another nail from his mouth, he did the same a little further along, continuing until there was only one nail left in his mouth.
‘Please don’t, Dad!’ Lexi cried loudly. ‘I’m sorry!’
Freya felt torn: she wanted to comfort her child, but also knew that they had to take a stand or she would continue to find new and more ingenious ways to deceive them.
‘Please, Dad!’ Lexi yelled. ‘I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’ Her voice was now desperate, shrill.
Lockie ignored her.
‘What’s going on? Why are you nailing her window shut?’ Charlotte enquired from the hallway.
It was all the distraction it took; Lockie pulled back his arm and in a split second of misjudgement he brought the hammer down, catching the flat head at such an angle on the brittle Edwardian glass that it shattered into tiny fragments, falling in shards across Lexi’s desk and over the carpet where she sat, coiled and terrified.
Charlotte screamed and Lexi placed her hands over her ears, as if she could undo the deafening crack or the sound of the wind that now whistled through the fist-sized hole in the window. The remainder of the glass then fell away in jagged sheets, falling to the courtyard below.
Freya stared in disbelief at the chaotic scene in front of her. Her tears fell unbidden.
Lockie turned, the glass crunching under his feet.
‘You can sleep on the sofa in Mum’s study tonight,’ he spat. ‘There are new rules, Lexi, and they are non-negotiable. You will finish your food before you leave the table – I don’t care if we sit there for an hour, two hours, three, so you’d better dig in. You are not to play with the food, anything that touches your fork has to immediately go into your mouth. You will not slouch or wear your hood up at the table. You will never, ever close any bedroom or bathroom door that you are in. Never. If you take a bath, either Mum or your sister will have to come and sit with you; if you need the loo, one of us will be outside. Do you understand?’
Lexi stared, wide-eyed at this unfamiliar version of her dad. Her eyes darted to her mum, who cried quietly and looked at the window, avoiding both of their eyelines.
‘Do you understand?’ he boomed.
Lexi jumped and nodded.
‘Good.’ He stared at his wife, daring her to undermine him.
‘I can’t have a bath,’ Lexi whispered.
‘What? I can’t hear you!’ he shouted. His fingers flexed in anger and frustration.
‘I can’t have a bath anymore.’ She was trying to speak loudly, but fear and weakness meant her voice was still barely more than a whisper.
‘Is that right? No baths? Well, that’s a new one. Did you hear that, Freya? No bathing! Why not?’ he spat, shaking his head at his wife.
Lexi looked up at him, her large eyes staring from inside her lollipop head. ‘The bones in my bottom feel like they are cutting through my skin if I sit in a bath; it hurts me,’ she managed.
And just like that, the anger dissipated and the Braithwaite family were awash with sorrow at this simple truth, shared by their sick child.
Lockie let the hammer fall to the floor, as if the strength had left his hand. Charlotte leant on the wall and cried to herself, and Lexi laid her head with its thin covering of patchy hair on her raised enormous knees, as if trying to block out the world.
There was the sudden sound of pitter-patter as the heavens opened and rain fell, finding its way into the room, as if their sorrow had summoned it and pulled it into the space where they stood.
‘I’ll go and call Brewster in,’ Charlotte offered, seemingly relieved to be escaping the room her family occupied, each feeling like they might suffocate.
Four hours, thirty minutes . . .
Charlotte crept into the study.
‘Hey, Mum, just wanted to let you know that Toby has just dropped this off. I messaged him.’
Charlotte spoke as she entered the study, placing the folded piece of paper on the edge of the desk and taking a seat on the sofa.
Freya turned to look at her daughter. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh . . . you know.’
Reaching out, Freya took the note in her fingers and opened it. Toby had a neat, professorial hand, just as she might have predicted.
‘Shall I read it out?’
Charlotte nodded again, pulling the soft mohair blanket up over her shoulder, inhaling the scent of those in her family who had taken comfort from it in recent times.
Freya coughed and read aloud:
You are my only friend, Alexia. You have never laughed at me. You are the kindest person I have ever met. You told me that everyone has their time and that my time wasn’t while I was at school, but not to be sad, as my time would come later when I discovered something great in maths or used it to change the world. I never thought I could change the world, but I know if you think that, Alexia, then it might be true.
And I love you.
Toby.
Charlotte sobbed and fell forward from the sofa on to the floor. ‘Mum!’ she managed. ‘Oh, Mum!’ She gasped for air.
‘It’s okay, darling, it’s okay.’
Freya left the chair to
hold her girl tightly, glancing over her shoulder at the beautiful words she held in her hand, written by the boy she had thought so little of.
ELEVEN
‘Can I go out with Fennella on Saturday?’ Lexi asked, quite out of the blue and with an air of brightness that was rare of late. She forked the last piece of broccoli into her mouth and chewed. It was the first time she had shown any interest in seeing or being seen by her friends in a long time.
‘What’s brought this on? You usually don’t want to see anyone.’ Lockie cut to the chase.
Lexi nodded. ‘I know, but I thought they wouldn’t want to see me. I’m so weird, and because I’m not at school I don’t really know what’s going on, but Fennella WhatsApp’d me and said that she would really like to see me, and it felt nice to know that they kind of missed me.’
‘I don’t see why not, if you feel up to it.’ Freya raised her eyebrows at Lockie, delighted by the development, the display of normality. ‘And you are not “weird”, darling. Just poorly.’
Lexi ignored her.
‘As long as you stay close to home,’ Lockie added. ‘Maybe get Nutella to come here and go for a walk or whatever, but don’t stray too far, I think that might be best. We promise to give you space and privacy, but you’re not quite fighting fit yet, Lex.’
‘And you have to promise not to call her Nutella!’ Lexi sighed.
‘I promise!’ Lockie held up three fingers in a salute reminiscent of the Boy Scouts. ‘Fennella Fenackerpants.’ He laughed loudly.
‘Da-ad!’
Lexi shoved him, and in that second Freya was reminded of the family life she used to enjoy, the humorous exchanges that were their glue, the relaxed atmosphere that meant to sit around the family table at mealtimes was the only place they wanted to be. This was a very good sign.
It broke Freya’s heart to watch Lexi brushing her long hair that was now so thin and lank. The blusher she then applied sat on her sharpened cheekbones, strikingly incongruous against her grey pallor. The smudge of dark eyeshadow on her swollen lids mirrored the blue-black stain of fatigue and stress that lived permanently beneath her sunken eyes. Far from prettifying her elfin face, the addition, the artifice, had quite the opposite effect, making her look comic, almost grotesque.
The Food of Love Page 18