“You don’t really believe he’s cheating on you with his patients, do you?”
“If he’s not, he’s hanging on to his professional ethics by a thread,” Mackie replied. “I always thought he should have been a gynecologist, but apparently it’s more of a turn-on to get into a woman’s mind than her pants.”
“When did you find out?”
“He’s pretty much been doing it on and off for years,” Mackie confesses. “The White Witch was right. I should have listened to her when she told me about that bimbo waitress at the pledge class reunion. And that was before we got married. Actually, now that I’ve gotten to know her, Nita’s really not so bad. Since you moved away, we’ve become, um, friends.”
“Oh, great. First she steals Manny from me, and now she’s stealing my best friend.”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” Mackie says. “We don’t still hate her, do we?”
“I do, and if I do, you do.” I am adamant.
“I thought the statute of limitations had run out on condemning witches. Besides, Nita and I are both in the same boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since Matt moved away, Little Jon has no one to play with, so he’s been hanging around with Manny. Manny and Little Jon are two peas in a pod. They feed off each other. I’m surprised you didn’t know. I’ve got the garden variety Wandering Jew right in my own backyard.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About Little Jon, or Manny?” Mackie asks sarcastically.
“Little Jon,” I say, sounding offended, but I am wondering why she never told me she knew for certain that Manny played around. It could have saved me a lot of heartache. But Mackie is pouring out her heart, and she is hurting.
“If I had told you about Manny,” she begins evenly, “I’d be admitting that Little Jon was guilty of the same behavior, and I wasn’t ready to do that, to you or myself. I tried to warn you.”
“I’m really sorry, Mackie. I had no idea. Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be,” she confirms.
“How are you handling it?”
“I’m trying to will myself into tranquility. I recite the rosary three times a day. I go to church as often as I can. I’m thinking of getting Little Jon to prescribe some drugs for me.”
“You want your husband to prescribe medication so you can recover from what he’s putting you through?”
“You have any better suggestions?”
“Confront him,” I suggest. “Talk to him.”
“I’d rather stick my head in the sand,” Mackie says. “It’s always worked for you.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” I offer, choosing to ignore her remark.
Mackie starts laughing, almost hysterically.
“You’re part of the problem,” she states cryptically.
“Me?” I say, bewildered.
“You didn’t know Little Jon has the hots for you, always has?” she asks suspiciously. “Has he ever come on to you?”
“No. I mean, he flirts and jokes around, but I never take him seriously. He does it right in front of you. Little Jon has always been the touchy-feely type. That’s part of his charm. It’s just Little Jon being Little Jon.”
“I’m sorry, Julie, but there’s nothing charming about a cheater,” Mackie says sullenly. “He finds your body type attractive. He’s really into you, Julie. He fantasizes about you.”
“How do you know that?”
“He’s sighed your name a couple of times while we were having sex. It just slipped out. I don’t think he was even aware of it.”
I can’t believe what I am hearing.
“You must hate me, then,” I say quietly.
“I don’t hate you,” Mackie says. “Correction. I did hate you, but I understand what you did.”
“What I did?” I ask, confused.
“I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone,” Mackie says.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve been with him, Julie,” she says evenly and then pauses. “But I’ve forgiven you.”
“What?” I shout. “You don’t really believe I would—”
“Remember that last night before you moved to Atlanta, when you still lived in Miami? Matt was out of town. He called in a panic and insisted that Little Jon drive over to your house to make sure you were all right.”
I could barely breathe. I thought I had locked the vault on that night. Safely submerged all thoughts, blocked all memories of that horrible time. If I ever recalled it, I thought it had all been just a bad dream.
“He never came home, Julie. I know he was with you.”
“Yes, he was at the house,” I admit, “but it wasn’t what you think. Natalie was there. He spent the night on the couch. I was—he was—” I was so distraught I hadn’t even thought to consider what that night might have looked like to Mackie.
“You needed him, Julie. I know that. Little Jon is very comforting. All his women think so.”
Then Little Jon hadn’t told her the truth about that night.
“I needed him as a friend, Mackie, that’s all. As a doctor.”
“Then why, when I asked him, wouldn’t he talk about that night?” Mackie wanted to know.
“Because I made him promise not to,” I say simply.
“Why not?” Mackie insists.
“I was out of it, Mackie. I was at the end of my rope. I was in a dark place.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘a dark place’? That you turned the lights out?” I recognize that sarcastic tone. Mackie is working herself into a frenzy, and I can almost hear Matt’s voice on the telephone the way it sounded just over a year ago, before Little Jon came to my rescue.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” he asked from his hotel room.
“No,” I answered, curled up on the couch, clutching Abercrombie. The dog was trying to wriggle away, but I wouldn’t let her go for anything. “There’s nothing in the house. Everything’s packed up. The movers are coming tomorrow, and you were supposed to be here, remember?” I said, managing to inject a modicum of acidity into my tone.
“You’re an adult. You have a car. Go to the store and buy something,” Matt chided gently.
“I don’t feel like going out right now. I’m tired.” Of course I’m tired. I’m tired of cooking for people who don’t want to eat. Tired of being the only one in the house who seems capable of clearing the table, loading and unloading the dishwasher, or changing a roll of toilet paper. Tired of being a wife without privileges. The bottom line is, I’m just plain tired. “You know I hate it when you scold me.”
“I’m not scolding you. You’re just being overly sensitive. Where’s Natalie now?”
“She’s up in her room, exercising. She thinks I can’t hear her jumping around up there like a wild woman.”
“Why haven’t you eaten?” Matt prodded again.
“It’s no fun to eat alone. Josh is out with friends, and it’s too much trouble to cook for myself.”
“You could have ordered take-out.”
“I’m not hungry, Matt,” I argued.
“Julie, you have to eat. I don’t want two starving women in the house.”
“Abercrombie ate her whole bowl of dog food. She’s a woman.”
“She’s a dog, Julie.”
“More like a pig, actually.”
“What did the doctor have to say today?” Matt asked, trying to get the conversation back on point. And the point was that Natalie was the only one left in this house he was really interested in.
“He said that one day Natalie would just wake up and decide to get better and start eating normally again. But that the whole recovery process might take up to three years.”
“Well, good, then we only have one year left,” Matt said, trying to make light of the situation. “What about the pediatrician?”
“She gained half an ounce, but it turns out she was hiding a weight in the hem of her jeans. He
said if she gets below seventy pounds she’s going to have to be hospitalized.”
“It’s not going to come to that,” Matt said. “Dammit, I should have been there. I’m sorry you have to handle this by yourself—the doctors and the move.”
“There shouldn’t have been a move.” I sighed. “Josh is a big help. He went to both appointments with us. He’s been great. But he’s missing out on his own life. He should be out playing football, having fun, or something. I’m letting him spend the night with some friends. It’s his last night here, you know. And he wants to spend some time with Zandy. He needs to get away from everything. From me. I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs these days.”
I debated whether to tell Matt the whole truth about the visit to the psychiatrist.
“The doctor says that Natalie thinks I favor Josh, that I like him better,” I whispered. “That she might be doing this to get my attention.”
Matt didn’t say anything.
“It’s not true, Matt. I love both of my children equally. You know that.”
Matt was quiet.
“Well, say something. You don’t think it’s true, do you?”
“I never said that. Why don’t you order out a pizza or Chinese? Or make some eggs. I’m worried about you, honey. You’re wasting away.”
“No, Natalie is wasting away,” I said, raising my voice and trying to hang on to my sanity. “I can’t think about food while my daughter is going hungry.”
“I think you may be depressed,” Matt said softly.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. When had the everyday business of living become such a chore? Was I depressed?
“Well, maybe I am,” I replied, feeling sorry for myself. “Can you blame me? You’ve rearranged my life to suit your own needs. My daughter is starving herself to death, and I can’t take it any more. I hate my life. I’m a miserable failure as a mother. I’m no good to anyone.”
“Don’t say that, honey. You know you don’t mean that.”
“How do you know what I mean?” I started crying. “You’re never around.”
“Julie, do you want me to fly home?” Matt offered.
“This isn’t home any more, remember?” I said, petulantly. “You’re taking my home away from me. I don’t want to leave Miami, Matt. Why do we have to move to Atlanta?”
“Julie, please. I can come home early.”
“You have an important meeting tonight. I know you can’t.” Won’t. With all my heart, I wanted him to. He was probably with Gretchen. I bit my bottom lip until it bled, but the steady stream of tears wouldn’t stop.
“Why don’t you call Mackie or Little Jon and have them come over and stay with you tonight?”
“Little Jon is sick of hearing about my problems. I’m sick of me, too.”
“The point is, you’re the strong one in the family. You’re the one who holds us all together. Natalie needs you. Josh needs you, and I need you. I’ll be home tomorrow morning, before the movers get there. Like I promised. Can you hang on that long? Stay in a holding pattern, Julie. Stay in a holding pattern.” My husband had logged so many Sky Miles he was even starting to sound like a pilot.
“Stop treating me like a baby, Matt.” Now I was sobbing uncontrollably, so I hung up the phone, before he could say, “Well, then stop acting like one.” I released Abercrombie from my death hold and looked around my beautiful, soon to be ex-home. The home I’d never see again after tomorrow. No one understood how much it meant to me. The lights were off, but I walked through every room, by feel, and drank in the memories, the good times we’d had in the house where we’d raised our children. Mostly I tripped on boxes and almost tripped over Abercrombie. Then I scooped up the dog, tiptoed up the stairs, and paused outside my daughter’s room. She was still exercising. The music was blaring. I tapped on the door and let Abercrombie down on the rug to hobble into our bedroom.
“Natalie?”
The noise stopped. I gave her a few minutes before I walked in. She was curled up in the coverlet like a crepe.
“I’m going to bed,” I whispered. “But I just wanted to tell you I love you. A lot. The most.” I leaned down and hugged her fragile frame tightly, while she feigned sleep. I sighed and walked out her door.
I turned out the lights in the hall, walked into my bedroom, and crawled into bed completely dressed, pulling the covers over my head.
I must have slept a little, because I woke up sometime later, rumpled and groggy.
I had been dreaming I was on a deck chair staring out at the blue Atlantic from a pink sand beach in Bermuda. Away from the daily drama of dealing with an anorexic daughter who had left me emotionally drained. Away from arguments about psychiatrists, nutritionists, fights about food, doctor’s visits to draw blood and weigh in, and the repetitive mantra of the anorexic, “I hate myself. My stomach is too fat. I look like a whale.” More like a whalebone. This from an eighty-pound girl who looked like a Biafran or a concentration camp victim—in America—in the new millennium!
I would never forget the day I recoiled in horror when I walked into the dressing room at Macy’s, where Natalie was trying on a bathing suit. Was this really my child? She was emaciated, nothing more than a skeleton. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Why hadn’t Matt? Because it had been winter and Natalie was hiding underneath layers of clothing. But this...was unthinkable. Apparently it had been going on for months, right under our noses, and we never even had a clue. Apparently I still had my head buried in the sand. It turned out Natalie was throwing food away behind our backs and eating no more than a few lettuce leaves, like a rabbit.
I thought the root of the problem might have been Matt’s obsession with exercise. He was always encouraging Natalie and me to keep in shape. Before Natalie got sick, I remembered Matt making a comment about how Natalie needed to lose a little weight. And according to all the literature I read about anorexia, one comment was all it took to trigger the downward spiral.
Every day was a struggle. Just as things seemed to be going right, they’d slip away, out of control. And then the horror would start all over again.
Matt and I tried everything, but Natalie was a clever girl. My sweet, perfect little Natalie was becoming deceptive, a person I barely recognized any more.
The books I read all said she was hearing voices, the good voices, and the bad voices causing her to stop eating whenever she was making progress. But I didn’t believe in voices. I believed you had control over your own life and that you could cure yourself if you really wanted to. My daughter knew all the tricks—feeding the food to Abercrombie under the table, putting weights in the hem of her jeans for the weigh-in at the doctor’s office. But Natalie, who had been so close to borderline, had never had to be hospitalized.
Mackie’s husband, Little Jon, had been a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would have done without him, truly. He had been there for me, listening patiently, providing a shoulder to lean on, someone to cry my heart out with. I’d really abused his friendship, calling him at all hours of the day and night with a million questions about Natalie.
The psychiatrist Little Jon recommended to treat Natalie had done wonders for her. He helped us cope with the monotony and anguish of a disease where parents had to watch their child disappear right before their eyes and were powerless to do a thing about it. He didn’t lay blame, but he concurred that Matt’s obsession with exercise was not helping matters, and he also intimated that my obsession with perfection was something Natalie had picked up on and perhaps was emulating.
I had always thought my life was perfect—perfect children, perfect home, perfect clothes, perfect car, perfect jewelry, perfect shop. But in fact, right now, everything was a perfect mess.
While Natalie was showing signs of improvement, my life was spinning out of control. Some nights things looked so bleak that instead of taking out my frustrations on Natalie, Josh, or Matt, I turned in toward myself and felt so hopeless I wanted to scream or run to my room to hide—to stick my head
in the sand. The evening before we were scheduled to move to Atlanta was one of those nights.
Waking, disoriented, I don’t remember feeling anything at all. I must have carried my dark thoughts into bed with me; they must have invaded my dreams.
My head was pounding. Pounding. Pounding.
I wanted all the pain to come to an end. I got out of bed, turned on the bedside lamp. I stood in front of Matt’s dresser drawer and picked up his loaded blue-steel Luger .357-caliber magnum, the gun my father had given him as a wedding present. Someone was at the door. Was it Matt? I stared at the weapon for the longest time. I imagined slowly pulling the trigger, thinking that all my problems would be over. What would that feel like? Did I really hold the gun up to my head or just imagine doing it?
“Julie, open up. Are you in there? Unlock this door or I’ll kick it down.”
Little Jon’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. I was frozen in place. I couldn’t make my legs work. I was sweating, and I tightened my grip on the gun.
Little Jon rattled the bedroom door and then splintered it as he kicked it in.
The ceiling light blinked on, and I looked up to find my best friend’s husband standing there in disbelief. He scrambled over the bed, grabbed the gun out of my hand, and wrestled me to the carpet.
“You little idiot,” he said. He wasn’t yelling. He was talking calmly, evenly, shaking me gently. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I took a deep breath and started sobbing.
Little Jon pulled me up against him, and I latched on. He held me for a long time, putting a comforting arm around me and smoothing my back with his other hand until I came out of that dark place.
“Go on and cry it out, Julie girl, it’s okay to cry. How long have you been feeling this way?”
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