I’m so transparent even the windows can see through me. This is nuts. Having a conversation with safety glass. This place is making me crazy.
I walk quickly, quietly to my bathroom. Lock the door. Look hard into the eyes of the fat girl in the mirror.
Find a way back under a hundred pounds, Marty. Before you explode.
Cut my hair! No scissors. Push-ups! I get down into position. The cold of the floor shoots through my hands and up my arms like an electric shock. Energizes me. One hundred push-ups. No slacking off. No matter what. GO!
One…two…three…four…five…
A voice. “Marty? Are you in there? It’s Dennis.”
Eight…nine…ten…
“I know you’re in there, Marty. I can hear you breathing. You have to stop. Not breathing, I mean. I mean, don’t stop breathing, just stop whatever you’re doing in there and come out and talk to me.”
Sixteen…seventeen…
“If you don’t come out, I’m going to have to come in. So come out and make life easier for both of us.”
Life’s…not…about…easy…
“Cripes!” Dennis says and leaves.
Twenty-five…twenty-six…twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…
Dennis is back. He jams a key into the lock and yells, “Last chance, Miss Black!”
Black…and…white…prepare…to…fight…
My arms give out and my face smacks the floor. The door flies open. Dennis falls to his knees and tries to get me into some Greco-Roman wrestling hold.
Forget this! I can’t breathe. I push myself up and throw my head back.
Crack! Thunk!
“Shit!” Dennis says, and slowly lets go of me.
I scramble out from under him and get my back to the wall. Dennis falls back on his butt. He grabs the toilet with one hand and the back of his head with the other. Looks through squinty eyes at the sink that dented his head. Blood runs from his nose.
“I’m sorry, Dennis. I didn’t mean to….Do you think you broke it?”
“The sink? Who cares about the sink?” Dennis says and shuts his eyes.
“Not the sink! Your nose!”
“Oh. I don’t know. I don’t think you broke my nose.” Dennis sounds like he has a cold, “But I’d like to know what you did to yours?”
I touch my nose, pull my hand away, and there is blood on it. Must be from the ceramic facial I gave myself before Dennis so rudely interrupted me in the spa.
“What the hell were you doing in here?” Dennis says.
“Nothing.” Just a little exercise.
“So I’ve got a lot of pain for nothing?”
“I said I’m sorry. You surprised me.”
“Maybe you’re right. I should have known better than to tackle a skinny little salamander like you.”
—
Dennis raises his eyebrows and turns his head toward the door. Footsteps. “Incoming,” he whispers and smiles.
Nurse Jane pops her face around the door. “GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM!”
“Morning, Janey,” Dennis chirps.
“Dennis! What happened?”
“Just a little A.M. alligator wrestling to start off the day.” Dennis laughs and chokes, which makes blood bubbles come out his nose.
Nurse Jane stares at him. Then at me. Then at him again. “Ugh,” she says, and leaves.
“Good-bye, Janey!” I say, and laugh and blow some bubbles of my own. That starts the whole contest between me and Dennis to see who can gurgle and cough and say “ow” and swear and make little red balloons come out our noses.
Jane comes back with two Ziploc baggies full of ice. Tosses one to me and fires the other bag into Dennis’s lap. He catches it within an inch of the life of his boys. Dennis stops laughing.
Jane smirks and says, “Now that I have your attention, do you want me to finish the weigh-in? The girls are waiting.”
“Argh….Yeah. Would you mind? Thanks, Jane. I had forgotten about that.” Dennis stretches his legs out across the bathroom floor.
I had forgotten about it too. Thanks for nothing, Jane.
Jane leaves to go weigh the chickens.
“Why the dark face, Marty?” Dennis asks.
“Nothing.”
“Would that be a hundred pound nothing?”
That’s me. A hundred pound nothing.
“Come on. You broke my nose. You owe me a breakthrough.”
“Stop trying to push my buttons. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Yes, I would…ah, shit….You’re right, Marty. I wouldn’t. And I never will. You want the truth?”
No, lie to me. Like everyone else.
“Here’s the truth. I think this not eating, or eating and puking, is nuts. I tried starving myself, you know. I lasted a whole day. And it was hell. I tried throwing up too. I wanted to try and understand something. But I don’t. I think it’s crazy. Doing drugs makes more sense.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t do them because you don’t control drugs. They control you.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe at weigh-in this morning, the scale took away your ninety-nine pound drug and gave you a one hundred pound shot of reality. And you flipped. So, drugs, numbers, scales–what’s the difference? It’s just the poison you pick.”
“You going somewhere with this, Dennis?” I shift because my bum is falling asleep.
“The question is, are you?”
“I don’t have a lot of options,” I say to the floor.
“Sure you do. A) You could leave here today. B) Lose the weight you’ve gained, or C) Just kill yourself and get it over with.”
“Those choices weren’t on my admit sheet when my mom brought me in.”
“They weren’t in writing, but they’re in your head.” Dennis rubs his.
“What if I tell Nurse Brown you told me I could go kill myself?” I say, staring him in the face.
“I’d claim temporary insanity. Or just deny it.” He looks for a dry patch on the washcloth he’s holding.
“You’d lie?”
“You can be a royal pain in the ass. But for you, anything. I’ll even help you get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Anywhere. What does it matter?” Dennis says and stands up. He leans over and puts out a hand to help me. “I’ll get the forms signed and you can leave.”
I’m shaking so much I can’t move. My eyes are stinging. I feel sick to my stomach.
“Come on, Marty. It’s over.” He grabs my arm and jerks me up to my feet.
The sudden motion forces me to throw up the truth: “I’m afraid of what I might do on the outside.”
Dennis pulls me into a desperate hug. “So someone else cares about you besides me.”
“Nothing personal, Dennis, but I hate you.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He squeezes me tighter.
DAY 74
AUGUST 26
“What time is it?” I ask the room. No answer. Must be late. I’m always the last one up. The morning “concierge” always complains about having to come and wake me personally.
They used to yell, from their desk, through the little box behind my bed. Until I mashed wet toilet paper into the tiny holes of the speaker. It made their voices sound like Charlie Brown’s teachers. It was funny till they found out. They told me I had to clean it. I said it would take forever. They said that was my problem. Three weeks ago, I solved my problem permanently.
I asked for a toothbrush to clean the holes, and to scrape off the paper-mâché, a knife from the kitchen. They gave me the dullest one they could find. I used the knife to unscrew the faceplate and put it under running water. My art project washed away in a couple of seconds. I used the plastic toothbrush to pull out and jam up as many wires as I could. Got another wad of toilet paper and stuffed it inside the box. Screwed the faceplate back on with the knife. The whole job took five minutes tops.
Thought I must be going soft because the first time I’d messed with the speaker I’d broken one of the rules–ALWAYS DO YOUR DAMAGE AND HIDING ON THE INSIDE, SO ON THE OUTSIDE EVERYTHING LOOKS PERFECT. For the next twenty-five minutes, I did sit-ups in the bathroom to the chant of “screw you.”
—
Well, I don’t feel like sit-ups today. I feel like crap. All achy and clammy and big. My nightgown is sticking to my back with sweat and my mouth feels like someone filled it with glue. I give my teeth a good tongue-lashing, but it doesn’t help much. I open one eye to check the clock over the door. It slowly comes into focus. Ten after six o’clock. A.M. I roll my head and scan the room to see if any inmates escaped in the night. Nope. All here and accounted for. Catwoman curled in a little ball at the foot of her bed. Katherine sleeping like a drooling angel, her praying hands trapped between her head and her pillow.
I’ve got to get up. Go to the bathroom. Then go back to bed and stay there for the rest of the day. I’ll miss group therapy. What a shame.
I throw the covers off and jump out of bed. Five quick steps to the bathroom. I wheel around and close the door behind me. Turn around and grab the cold sides of the sink. Dizzy. Moved too fast. I bend over and hug the sink and put my forehead on the porcelain edge and suck air through my mouth. Feel better…as in “better get a bucket.” Open your eyes, stupid, and find something to focus on. I open my eyes and look down at my feet on the tiles. The white tiles with blood on them. What the hell? Are my gums bleeding again, my nose? I look in the mirror to find the culprit. I snarl at myself but my fangs are white and my nose is cold and dry. I catch a glimpse of something red when I look into the mirror on the wall, past my face and into the reflection of the mirror on the door behind me. My nightgown is soaked in blood. Almost a perfect red bull’s-eye is covering my butt.
“This can’t be happening,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no, No, NO!” I yell.
Two bed creaks. One small. One big.
“Shhhiiiit!” Catwoman and Katherine.
“Marty? Are you alright?” Katherine calls, with more fear than concern.
“Shit, Shit, SHIT!”
“Marty, what’s wrong? Should I call a nurse?” “NO! I’ll be out in a minute,” I shout through the door. I pull off my nightgown and shove it down into the garbage. Drop lots of clean toilet paper on top. Wipe the blood off the floor and my legs and some on my shoulder with more toilet paper and flush it down. My underwear. What a mess. I wad up the last of the roll and stuff into the crotch of my panties. Feels like I’ve got a tennis ball between my legs. Maybe they’ll believe I swore because I ran out of paper…that I was just about to take a shower…any missed blood could be from shaving with my black market razor. That’s it. Shower and shave…all evidence covered.
I walk out like a geisha, towel wrapped around me and tucked under my arms. “Katherine, I just –” I stop because Katherine isn’t looking at me; she’s staring at the floor. But Catwoman is sitting back on her haunches, eyes locked on my bed like she’s seen a mouse. I look over too. Yes. I’d covered all the evidence. All the evidence except the Japanese flag I left exposed on my bed when I threw off the covers.
“Marty –”
“Shut up, Katherine. Don’t say anything.” Think, Marty. What are you going to do now? I look over at Catwoman. She’s all balled up and facing the wall. Katherine weighs enough; she’s got to have something. I turn to her. “Do you have any tampons?”
No answer. She just looks past me out the window.
“Katherine?…KATHERINE!”
“You told me not to say anything,” Katherine says.
Fix it, Marty, fix it to get what you need so only three people will have to know. “Argh. Okay. I’m sorry, really very sorry. Can I please have some tampons?”
“No.”
Fine, punish me, but I’m not going to suck up anymore. “Thanks for your help!”
“I don’t have any. They took them away when I was admitted. You’ll have to go to the nurse for some.”
“I’d rather phone my father and ask him to fedex a box from New York.”
“That’d be stupid,” Katherine half laughs.
“Stupid, but easier, with less questions.”
“That’s true. What about your mom?”
I look at the clock. 6:30. She won’t be up yet. She can bring some before going to work. I pull my blankets up to the head of the bed. Grab a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a clean pair of underwear. Quickly change in the bathroom and file the dirty panties under the pile of toilet paper.
“Katherine, it’s not a big deal or anything, but –”
“I KNOW. Don’t say anything. I know you call me chatty Kathy….Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me,” Katherine says, looking hurt. Again.
Yeah, right. “I’ll be right back.” I go into the hall and stand on my tiptoes to see down the corridor to the nurse’s desk. Nobody home. I creep towards the lounge with the patients’ phone. I crouch down in front of the desk and locate the nurse by sound. Weird lyrics to the tune of the Macarena come from the meds room.
Tryptophan, Lorazepam, Valium, and Ritalin
Noooow you’ll be sedated.
She doesn’t hear me go into the lounge and close the door. Too busy working on her second career. I pick up the phone, but can’t remember the number. The phone is a spin dialer. Thousands of dollars a day for an old phone. I close my eyes and press my fingers on an imaginary keypad. Got it. Seven spins of the wheel of fortune.
“Hello?” Mom’s froggy voice answers.
“Mom, I need –”
“Marty, what time is it? 6:40. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Can you bring me a box of tampons before you go to work?”
“Did you get your period?”
Don’t be smart. Be nice. “Yes.”
“Well…congratulations. Do you know what to do?”
“YES! Can you just –”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to use tampons your first time.”
“It’s not my first time.”
“When did you get it?”
“About three years ago. I just haven’t had it in a while.” Two years and seven months to be exact.
“Then this is good news, isn’t it? I should call your father.”
“NO! Mom, please, the things!”
“I’m showing a house at seven-thirty this morning. Just go to the nurse. I’m glad you called though; I’ve got to get up and put on the power suit. I’m sorry, honey.”
“Forget it, Mom. Glad I could be of help,” I say, and slam the phone down. The one good thing about old phones is that they’re slammable.
You’ve run out of options, Marty. You have to go ask THEM.
The nurse is humming a new song when I come up to the desk. Takes her a minute to realize I’m there. “Where did you come from?” she asks as she checks behind me to see if anyone else magically appeared.
I take a deep breath. “I need a box of tampons.”
“What for?”
“Arts and crafts.”
She gives me the look.
“Okay. I’m constipated and need more fiber in my diet.”
“What do you really need them for?” Another question, another look.
“Alright. I’m going to sew little lead balls into them and put them in every orifice so I can make my weight and get out of here.”
“Did you get your period?”
“BINGO! We have a winner. Can I have the box now…please?”
“Just a minute.” She goes to the meds room. Comes back and places two tampons on the counter in front of me.
“Only two?…I need a box.”
“You can come back and get more.”
“What if someone is around? Then they’ll know. Then everyone will know!”
“What’s wrong with everyone knowing?”
“You’re right.” I grab the microphone they use for announcements and flip the switch to ON. “Attention, Kmart shoppers! Mar
ty got her period. Cleanup on aisle five!” I turn the mike off and glare at the nurse. “You happy? Now everyone knows how fat I am.”
“You’re not fat, Marty. Your body fat has just come up high enough for you to start menstruating again. This is a big day in your recovery. It’d be a good idea if you got used to it.”
“You’re not supposed to give advice–just ask questions!”
I arm myself with the two missiles and march down the hall. When I get to the room, Katherine is standing by my bed.
“I…,” Katherine starts.
“Not a word, Katherine, or I’ll insert one of these down your throat and you’ll suffocate and I won’t change my mind and yank it out by the string!” I lock myself in the bathroom and sit down on the toilet. A nanosecond of free fall and I’m in the bowl along with one of the tampons. Someone had left the seat up. Because someone had cleaned it. And someone had also left a new roll of toilet paper and a washcloth on the sink. I fix myself up and come out.
“I made your bed and Catwoman did the litter box,” Katherine says, and pulls back my covers. “Don’t say anything. Just get in.”
I crawl under the sheets and face the wall. She starts rubbing my back, and my eyes start leaking along with everything else.
“I’m sorry…,” I whisper into the mattress.
“I know you are. And I know you don’t cry. You’re just hormonal.”
DAY 80
SEPTEMBER 1
Another postcard from Cherri.
Hey, I’m not going to Princeton. I’m staying closer to home. By the time you get this I’ll have started at University of San Diego. Maybe you can join me later. Here’s my address and phone number. Call me. Love, Cherri
—
I put the card in my drawer.
DAY 84
SEPTEMBER 5
“What do you think all that sawing and hammering is?” Lily asks from across the table and pokes at her oatmeal.
“They’re building coffins for us. So we can lie down in them and see what it feels like to be dead. It’s a new form of therapy,” I answer.
More Than You Can Chew Page 8