I look down at my proposal and see a spot where I was nowhere close to smart. “Where did I get that?” I say, so used to vocalizing my thoughts to Gloria that I hardly realize I’m speaking out loud. “My math is way off.”
I’d written that part of the proposal on Monday night, hours after eating the last of the day’s 200 calories. It had taken me ages to figure out those numbers because my mind wouldn’t focus, which was why today I decided to wait to eat so I’d be able to work well, but at the end of Monday’s session I’d reviewed my work and had been sure I was right. I was wrong.
“What else have I—” I begin, then cut myself off. “Nothing else. Right? The rest is good. I just made a mistake.”
Three mistakes, it turns out when I recheck everything.
I fix them, then close the laptop and stare at it. If I give a presentation filled with errors I don’t have a prayer of getting the promotion. And I want it. Badly. Elle has been friendlier to me the last few times I’ve seen her than ever before and I know she admires my new smaller figure and the discipline it took to gain it. I’m smaller than Jaimi now, and though my protégée doesn’t seem to care I know she must. How could she not? I’m more experienced than her, and now more of a symbol of Elle’s ideal customer. I’m ahead of her in the race for the job, and getting further ahead all the time.
Unless I mess up.
When I mess up, bad things happen. Anthony and the balloons I didn’t put away, Gloria and my refusal to change my plans to see her… and now a little math stands between me and the job of my dreams.
I have to be perfect.
I will be perfect.
*****
Over the next week, Gloria continues opening her eyes on command, and on her own. She speaks Remy’s name several times and mine too, along with saying Mom and Dad, and though her words are a little garbled they’re recognizable and the medical staff is delighted that she uses names only when the appropriate person is there. Her motor responses still aren’t perfect, since her hands continue to be curled in on her chest in that strange coma posturing, but her improvements everywhere else have earned her a coma score of 12.
She proves to me just how alert she’s become on Wednesday night as I sit by her bed again fighting with my proposal. Another 200-calorie day, another desperate struggle to keep my brain focused. It’s not so much that it goes off on random trains of thought, more that all the trains stop running at once and everything becomes silent and flat inside my skull. Getting it geared up to think again is difficult, and recognizing that it’s shut down and I’m just staring at the laptop screen is even harder.
“Lips,” Gloria says, a little distorted but clear enough. “Dry.”
She can’t have an actual drink of water because of the tubes and her inability to swallow around them, but we’ve been permitted to apply water to her lips with a sponge and then give her a bit of lip balm to hold the moisture in.
This is the first time she’s asked me to do this since my mom usually does it before she leaves, and as I set my laptop aside I’m at first glad for the break then find my hands shaking as I reach for the tray of supplies. I look from one hand to the other, surprised, but as I move the sponge toward Gloria’s mouth and terror fills me I understand my reaction.
I don’t know exactly how much water to use, and if I use too much I could hurt her. If I do it wrong, if I’m careless, if I make a mistake… and I’m making mistakes all over the place on 200-calorie days so I might…
Gloria says, “Lips,” again, sounding confused at my not doing what she’s asked, and despite my fear I make myself gently stroke the sponge over her mouth until I can see a hint of water on her skin. As I do, my eyes flick to the scar on her cheek, the long pale stripe where she was cut after discovering our unconscious brother, and I wish I could wipe the sponge over it and erase it. Every time she sees herself, that scar must make her remember the day I destroyed our family.
How can she even let me touch her?
How can my mother stand to hug me?
I set the sponge down on the tray and grab the lip balm, forcing those thoughts away. They’re true, but they’re not helpful right now.
“Listen,” I say, trying to distract myself as I struggle to maneuver the lip balm stick with trembling hands, “I’ll let you order me around while you’re here, but if you think I’ll be your slave once you’re all better, well, think again, lady. You’ll be putting on your own lip balm in no time.”
She makes an attempt at a giggle, and I love it. She understood that I was teasing. She will be all better.
When I’ve recapped the lip balm, I say, “We need fresh water here, I think. Be right back,” and leave the room with the tray. On my return, after dropping off the tray at the nurses’ station for them to deal with as they’d instructed, Gloria still has her eyes open and is clearly waiting for me.
“Hi,” I say, touched and thrilled. “You stayed with me even though I wasn’t here.”
She blinks, then says something I don’t catch.
“Pardon?” I move closer. “Say that again.”
She does, and my almost empty stomach twists.
“Skinny.” All too clear this time. “Too. Skinny.”
“Me?” I look down at my body. “No, I’m not, I’m fine. I—”
Before all of this happened, she had an amazing snorting sound that she’d deploy whenever someone said something particularly stupid. To my surprise, she gives me a weak but still recognizable one now.
“I did it for you,” I say, devastated. “It was all I could do to help. And my boss thinks I look good, and my coworkers do too.” My manicurist, on Monday, did not; she looked me over and gasped, “Are you sick?” I informed her I was fine in cold enough tones that I know she won’t mention my weight again. I won’t tell Gloria about that. “And so does Aunt Gladys—”
Another snort, and I know why. Aunt Gladys has been so obsessed with her weight all her life that she didn’t eat her own wedding cake so she couldn’t gain an ounce. Being told by Aunt Gladys, as I was yesterday, that I’m finally at a good weight is more of a strike against my ‘not too skinny’ statement than support of it.
“Eat,” Gloria says. “Eat.”
My head shakes without my conscious direction and my left hand moves to snap the rubber band on my right wrist. “I can’t,” I say, jerking my hands apart and putting them on my hips where I feel the fabric of my cobalt size-two dress folding in to touch my body. “I can’t. If I quit, I… you got better when I lost weight and if I gain it again or stop losing… I don’t know what will happen.”
Gloria closes her eyes.
I stand, hands on my hips which are bonier than I realized, waiting to see if she’ll respond. I’ve never been so glad to argue with my sister. And never so unsure of how to end an argument.
She’s woken up. My goal was to become a size zero so she’d wake up, and we have both done what I wanted. She recognized my weight and found the appropriate word to describe it, even if she’s not right that I’m too skinny, and her connecting that to Aunt Gladys is proof that her brain is functioning well. She’s not fixed yet, but she is on her way. So what do I think will happen if I quit losing weight?
I have no idea.
But I do know that I’d give up the only control I have over the situation.
And that terrifies me.
Chapter Twenty
On Sunday night, Remy smiles at me and says, “Dessert? It’s really good here. Would cap off a great day.”
It’s been an amazing day, actually. He mentioned casually on Saturday that he’d be at Gloria’s bedside Sunday afternoon, so I showed up ‘by mistake’ and hung out with him there before suggesting we have dinner. He agreed, then dramatically promised Gloria he wouldn’t reveal any of her shocking secrets to me and made both of us giggle, and after going to an art supply store where he paid what seemed to me like a huge amount of cash for paint and canvases we came to this adorable little restaurant for a delicious
meal.
Which I’ve hardly tasted.
Today should be a 400-calorie day, and I’ve gone way past that, but being with Remy is so distracting the food’s hardly managed to register with me. We’re both ecstatic about Gloria’s continued recovery, and especially about how she’s finally beginning to take her hands out of that ‘on the chest’ posture, and though we’ve been comfortable with each other all the way along today I truly feel like he’s interested in me on a deeper level.
The same level on which I’m interested in him.
The naked level.
Though I can still see places where I could stand to lose a bit more weight, yesterday I bought size double-zero jeans and an equally small black top and I feel sexy in them. I want Remy. And tonight, fueled by the great wine he ordered, I am going to get him.
As I take a breath to say no to his offer of dessert, his smile broadens and he says, “Don’t you dare refuse. Let me give you some pleasure for once.”
The breath catches in my chest. Oh, how I’d love to. “Well, okay,” I say, smiling back at him. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I do.” He winks at me then waves over our server, and we are soon picking up our forks to dip into what looks like the best cheesecake I’ve ever seen.
After one bite, I know this is in fact the best cheesecake ever made, and my weeks of deprivation make the feel of its rich fatty sweetness in my mouth almost orgasmic.
“So good,” I murmur, doing my best to sound sexy.
“Absolutely,” he responds, and I doubt he’s trying to sound sexy. He certainly manages it, though.
I only eat a few bites of the dessert, because of how far over my limit each one is pushing me, but when Remy encourages me to take it home I allow it to be packed up. As I tuck its little box into my purse I decide I’ll freeze it and eat just a tiny nibble each day. It’ll be another way to prove to myself that I’m strong and can handle anything.
Once he’s finished his dessert he insists on paying for both our meals, which makes me feel even more like we’re on a date, and after he gives the server his credit card he says to me, “I thought I had enough cash, but I overdid it at the art supply store. Good thing that place doesn’t take cards, though, or I’d be so far in debt I’d never get out. Do you ever feel like you can’t control yourself?”
I nearly say, “Around you, yes,” but I hold that back and say only, “Who doesn’t?”
He grins at me. “So true.” Then his eyes stray to the wine bottle. “We left some. Help me finish it?”
The last half glass of wine goes straight to my head, and once we’re out on the sidewalk, feeling wild and crazy with sugar and alcohol and lust I whisper to him, “That cheesecake was good, but I was hoping I’d get to be your dessert.”
He drops his bag of painting supplies. “Pardon?”
I swallow hard, his shocked and not-at-all-aroused expression proving to me he heard me. Heard me, and didn’t like the idea. I stare down at the ground as the cheesecake churns in my stomach. “Oh, God.”
He scoops up his bag then reaches for my hand.
I jerk it away. “Never mind. Sorry.”
“Valerie, I…”
“Never mind,” I say again, fiercely, without looking up. “Just don’t. You don’t want me and that’s fine. Forget it.”
“I won’t,” he says softly. “I’m flattered. I’m also… I’m gay. But if I weren’t—”
“I didn’t know,” I blurt, cutting him off before he can say that if he wanted women he’d want me. I feel stupid enough already without being patronized like that. Working in fashion I know a lot of gay guys but I didn’t have a clue about Remy. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” he says. “I didn’t mean to, though. I guess I should have told you, but I never thought you’d— I mean, with Gloria…”
He’s right. Why would he have thought I’d go after him while my sister lay in a hospital bed? I let my own desires and feelings get in the way. Again. When will I learn? “Yeah,” I whisper, my throat so tight with pain and disgust I can’t speak any louder. “I’m horrible. I’m sorry.”
Since I’m not looking at him, he manages to take my hand before I can pull it away again. “You aren’t horrible. Not at all. And I am flattered. And honored. Really, it’s okay. We’re okay.”
He might be, but I can’t handle being with him another second. A taxi stops in front of us since the light at the intersection is red, and I snatch my hand away and lunge for it. Ignoring Remy’s cry of “Wait!” I jump in and lock the door before he can open it.
As the taxi lurches away when the light changes, I can’t resist looking back at him. He stands watching me, and the sympathy on his face makes my over-full stomach twist.
“Where to, lady?”
I give the driver my address then sit feeling sick and miserable until we reach my building where I pay then drag myself up to my apartment, taking the nine flights of stairs instead of the elevator in an attempt to burn off at least a little of the excess I took in.
A few steps away from my place it occurs to me that if I make myself throw up I might get rid of even more. I’ve never done that before, but I hurry into the apartment then straight to the bathroom, where I dump my purse on the floor and jam my finger down my throat.
No luck. Though I stab at myself until my mouth and throat are in agony, I can’t get any further than gagging.
Finally, I give up and slump on the floor with my back against the wall. So useless. So unbelievably useless.
My stomach clenches and I rest my hand on it to calm it, then jerk away when I feel the bulge there.
Horror fills me. Gloria got better when I lost weight, so what the hell am I doing eating dessert and getting fat again?
Dessert. I brought the damned thing home.
I drag myself to my feet, feeling weak and dizzy from my attempts at throwing up, and dig the dessert box out of my purse. As I hold it over the garbage can, though, I can’t make myself let go. Remy gave it to me. He’ll never give me anything else, since I’m going to make sure I never see him again, so throwing it out feels wrong.
How many calories are in it, anyhow? What if I do like I planned and only take a nibble every day until it’s gone? Can I do that?
A rough laugh bursts out of me, making my throat hurt even more. Of course not. I don’t have the willpower for that. Gloria’s health depends on me and I’ve been an idiot. I’ve ruined my diet streak, ruined my time out with Remy, and maybe ruined Gloria’s—
No. I can’t let myself think that. I’ll just restrict even more and make up for it. It’ll be fine.
Something inside me, something weak and pathetic, whimpers at the thought of eating even less, and I know I won’t be able to do it. After everything I ate today I’ve probably stretched my stomach out so I’ll be starving tomorrow and I won’t be able to stop myself eating. I’ll be the blob that ate Brooklyn. New York City. The whole damn state.
No willpower. No control. Just like before, with Anthony. If Gloria dies, it’ll be all my fault.
“You want cheesecake?” I hiss at myself, so angry at my uselessness I can barely breathe. “That’s what matters to you? Fine. Eat til you puke.”
I grab it from the box and take a huge bite. My stomach cramps as I swallow, but I make myself get the bite down and then take another and another.
“You want to gorge yourself?” I think as a fourth bite struggles down my aching throat. “Fine. See how it feels. No control idiot. Stupid useless bitch. Suffer. Eat it and suffer.”
I do. I eat it, and I suffer. My stomach protests after so many weeks of hardly eating but I keep cramming in the cheesecake. Feeling full feels awful, and I desperately miss the clean quiet lightness I feel when I eat next to nothing, but I don’t let up until the cheesecake is gone.
Then I sit there, with my new size double-zero jeans digging into my bloated stomach, and try to burn how disgusted and sick and miserable I feel into my mind.
/> So I’ll never eat dinner like that again.
Chapter Twenty-One
When I wake up the next morning, after a terrible night since I didn’t allow myself a sleeping pill, my first reaction is to touch my stomach to see how big it is. My second is to be horrified.
Not at my stomach, since the bulge I feared isn’t there.
At myself.
How could I have forced cheesecake down my throat like that? When I researched the 2468 diet I read about girls using food to punish themselves and thought it was terrifying and sad, and now I’ve done the same thing.
I have to stop this. Food isn’t the enemy, and punishing myself with it isn’t the answer.
I get up and take a shower, trying to wash away my misery with the hot water, and as I dress I realize I’ve got not just one but several chipped nails on my right hand. Did I chip them yesterday when I… while trying to get rid of the cheesecake, or some other time? I don’t even know if they were okay before I went out with Remy. How can I not know? If I can let something so simple fall apart then everything could fall apart. I can’t allow that.
I’ve got a manicure booked for later but I can’t go to work like this so I pick out a quick-drying polish and scrub off the old stuff with more force than required. I can’t help it; though I know it’s stupid to care I can’t stop thinking about exactly when I chipped them and how long I might have walked around like that. My imperfect manicure is a sign, and a bad one, and I can’t let things slide any further.
Once I’ve given my freshly polished nails their quick-dry topcoat and a few minutes to set I make myself head to the office. One more day before our presentations to the board, so though I want to stay home and hide I have to go in and be seen.
Halfway there, I realize I forgot to eat anything, and I spend the rest of my commute wondering whether I should. After the cheesecake, and the rich dinner too, do I actually need anything else? Maybe fasting today is the way to go.
Holding Out for a Zero Page 11