“Would you like a scotch?” Mom asks Dad, who is perched on the arm of the couch.
“Ah…sure. With a –”
“A lemon twist. I remember.” Mom pulls a new bottle from the cereal cupboard. Opens the fridge for a lemon, the freezer for some ice. I have a good view from the barstool at the kitchen counter. Beer. Second shelf. Vodka. Underneath the frozen corn.
Mom makes the drink and delivers it to him, swirling the ice before she hands it over. Sounds like rocks hitting glass.
I flinch.
“You okay, honey?” Dad asks me, as he accepts the scotch. “Thanks, Judith.”
“Yeah, I just have a headache.”
“Biting your fingers isn’t going to make it go away.” Dad looks disgusted at my ripped and bleeding cuticles.
Mom walks to her bedroom. “I’ll get you some Tylenol.”
“I know you’re a little shocked, Marty. Your mother said you wanted me to come to San Diego for Christmas, and she thought it would be better as a surprise.” He sips his drink.
“I never –”
Mom rushes back. Stands between Dad and me. Thrusts the pills and water at me.
I dry my lap with a tea towel. “I never thought you’d actually make it,” I say.
“Well, I’m here, but I think I’ll go back to my room, have a nap, and get into some fresh clothes. My hotel isn’t far from where your mother has made reservations for dinner, so I’ll just meet you guys there.” He tosses back the last half of his scotch.
I remember something. He usually drinks a lot slower.
Dad has escaped. And left me here.
“Why did you lie?” I look at Mom, but she just keeps washing the scotch glass.
“I didn’t,” she says, smiling at the sink. “You said –”
“No. I said nothing.”
“I wanted to make you happy.”
“By making me spend time with two people who can’t even have a civilized phone conversation?”
“We’re not just two people. We’re your parents!”
“I’ve never seen you together!” My voice rises to match hers.
Mom looks like she’s going to cry. “Don’t be mad…it’s Christmas.”
“When am I allowed to be mad?”
Mom narrows her eyes. “Don’t blow it, Marty. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Trust me on this one.”
“Trust you? That’s a good one, Mom.” I slide off the stool, step into my room, and slam the door. And listen.
The cereal cupboard bangs shut.
Mom won’t tell me where we are going for our Christmas Eve dinner. I walk downwind from her. I only smell Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. Not scotch by Johnny Walker.
After two blocks I see Dad standing out front of Mi Casa Su Casa. I used to come here a lot with Cherri and her family for rolled tacos and hugs from Hernando.
“Hello, ladies.” Dad gives me a kiss on the cheek. Hesitates. Gives Mom one too.
They both laugh.
Don’t throw up before dinner…maybe after.
Dad lets Mom go in first. She heads for the hostess.
I can’t move. He puts his hand on my back and pushes me into the restaurant. “What’s the name of this place in English?”
I tell him, “My house is your house.”
“The owner must have gone through a divorce.” Dad laughs, “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”
Hernando busts through the saloon doors of the kitchen. “Hola chica!” He comes barreling towards us and wraps me up in one of his hugs. It’s like being inside a warm soft tortilla. He used to do it to Cherri and say, “Look, we are a pescadito taco.” He lets me go, but grabs my face and squeezes till I have fish lips. “Tu cara es redonda! Está preciosa!”
“What did he say?” Dad asks.
“That my face is fat.” I look at Hernando. “Mi padre no habla español.”
Hernando shakes Dad’s whole arm. “Oh, sorry, señor. Not fat. I’m fat. I say her face is round, beautiful!”
Dad smiles. “Looks like your mother is waiting for us.”
“Yes. Bueno! Come, sit.” Hernando leads us to Mom and a table near the kitchen. He surprises her by giving her a squeeze. “I be right back,” he says.
Dad and I sit.
“This is not the table I requested,” Mom says, standing and looking around.
“It’s perfect, Judith,” Dad says. He gets up and pulls out her chair.
The waitress brings chips and salsa. “Can I get you some drinks?” She smiles, but stops when she gets to me. “Marty?”
“Hi, Lucinda.” We were in the same class last year.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you….You look good.”
“How about a pitcher of virgin margaritas?” Dad suggests.
“Sure.” Lucinda leaves, but talks to the hostess before going to the bar.
Dad puts his menu on the extra chair. “What’s good here, Marty?”
“Everything. The taquitos are the best.” Don’t screw up.
Mom opens her menu and starts making faces. “I think I’ll have the broiled chicken with salad instead of rice and beans.”
Lucinda drops off the drinks and takes our order.
“You two must come here a lot,” Dad says, and offers me some chips.
I take some. They are hot and greasy and the best-tasting thing I’ve eaten in months.
“I’ve never been here, but obviously Marty has. I’m working seven days a week. Doesn’t give me a lot of time for going out,” Mom says.
“Don’t you and Marty eat together?”
“I’m going to the bathroom.” I get up quickly and walk through the door. I look in the mirror to see the girl that everyone but my parents see. I go back to find out if reappearing makes any difference.
Hernando is delivering our food: “Here you go, two taquitos especiales and one grilled pollo. Enjoy. Feliz Navidad.”
“Merry Christmas.” Dad raises his glass and we clink. “Now how do you eat these things that look like cigars?”
“Señor, just like you’d smoke them–with your mouth and fingers.” Hernando walks away laughing.
Dad and I eat with our hands. Mom picks at her salad. Mine is the cleanest plate they take away. No one wants dessert.
“Well, what should we do now, Judith?”
“It’s a beautiful night. We could walk to the Grande Hotel and go dancing?”
“I can’t go in there, Mom, I’m under age.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Yeah, right.
Silence.
“Actually, why don’t you two go? It’s been a long day. I haven’t been in my own bed for almost six months. I could use a good sleep.” I kiss Dad and leave before they know what hit them. I run across the street to the corner with the big hedge. Stop and catch my breath. Notice that all the palm trees are wrapped in Christmas lights.
I watch them come out of Hernando’s and walk north to the hotel.
The lights are blurred all the way home.
DAY 195
DECEMBER 25
I hear Mom tiptoe through my room into my bathroom. She fluffs the new pink towels that will show stains and that have replaced my black ones. The toilet lid squeaks when she lifts it, checking for evidence. I cleaned it last night after I threw up and before I took a tranquilizer with a NyQuil chaser.
Mom sits on my bed. “Wake up, pumpkin. Come see what’s in your stocking.”
Play dead. Maybe she’ll go away.
“Come on, I know you’re faking. Your father will be here in an hour. I need you to make your famous eggs Benedict.” She gets up and goes to the living room, expecting me to follow.
As I come out of my room, “White Christmas” by a reggae band blasts me in the face. Mom starts dancing around. She motions me to join her. I go straight to the kitchen and rip open the bag of oranges next to the juicer.
Mom shimmies over and lowers the volume. “Hope you don’t mind I moved your stere
o. It sounds so much better out here.” She cranks it back up and starts to merengue.
I melt half a pound of butter for the hollandaise sauce. Burn it. Start over. The two eggs I try to crack one-handed end up crushed. Deep breath. I get a knife, tap three eggs gently, separate the yolks and whisk them into a heavy saucepan. Squeeze the life out of one fat lemon and stir that in too. Salt. Pepper. I cut six thick slices of honey ham and lay them in a hot cast-iron fry pan. They sizzle and pop and make my stomach snarl and chew on itself. It’s starving from having to give up last night’s dinner. And it’s used to being fed twice by now.
Pounding at the door makes me jump. I go round the corner and peek through the spy hole. It’s Dad.
“Jesus Christ, Marty! I’ve been knocking for five minutes. If you wouldn’t play your music so loud, you might’ve heard me.” Dad drops his gift bags and throws his sunglasses on the table.
I run to turn down the stereo.
Mom charges out of her bedroom in her bra and unzipped jeans. Her face and throat are slathered with green slime. “Hey, I was listening to that while I’m getting ready!”
“Dad’s here.” I point to the kitchen behind her.
“Merry Christmas, Judith.”
Mom holds up the one-minute finger as she backs into her room.
“Sorry I yelled at you,” Dad says, kissing me on the cheek. “That smells mouthwatering.”
My mouth agrees.
“Can I help?” He drums his fingers on the counter.
“Sure. The English muffins need toasting. Cutting board and toaster under there.” I put the ham in the oven. Whisk butter into the sauce. Add more lemon juice into boiling water, and eggs for poaching.
“When did you learn to be such a good cook?”
“Don’t know.” When Mom was too busy working and drinking.
“I read that anorexics like to cook–in a book I bought.” He stares into the toaster.
“Was it a recipe book?” I try to joke.
Mom emerges zipped and decreamed. “Breakfast looks under control. I’ve already set the table.” She opens the glass doors to the balcony. Everything out there is new to me. Table, chairs, cutlery, dishes, even cloth napkins.
Our old dishes are plain white. I picked them. A blank canvas to show off my artwork. I pull out the three I’ve had warming in the oven. Mom hands me yellow plates with blue flowers all over them instead. I put six million calories onto them and hand them back.
“This is delicious. Must be nice to be able to eat outside all year round,” Dad says.
This is the third meal in two years I’ve choked down out here.
Mom gets a silk scarf and perfume from Dad. Tiny gold earrings from me, bought during a Silver Lake field trip.
Dad gets a golf shirt from Mom. History of America’s Cup yacht race from me.
I get a yellow sweater from Mom. Perfume and silver earrings from Dad. My stocking has chocolates. New underwear, three sizes bigger than last year.
Dad puts his stuff in one of the gift bags he brought. “I thought maybe we could take a ride. I want to look at some commercial property in La Jolla and Del Mar.”
“That sounds great…,” Mom says, dabbing on her perfume.
“What time should Marty and I be back for dinner?”
Mom freezes. “5:00.”
“Okay, kid. Throw on some clothes, bring a jacket, and come see what Santa loaned me.”
I move faster than a flying reindeer.
“You guys have fun. I’ll do all the grunt work.” Mom bangs the door shut after us.
We walk down the two flights to the lot. The car is parked right next to the building in a tight spot. I can’t even get my door open.
“Just hop in,” Dad says.
I jump in the red Mustang convertible and look up to the balcony. Mom is standing there. She looks like she got a pony for Christmas, but it got away.
Dad and I are an hour late getting back. Everything has dried up, waiting for us. Including any Christmas spirit.
The frozen pumpkin pie burnt in the oven. Dad leaves before finishing his coffee.
“Throw it all out,” Mom says, as she marches to her room, “including the tablecloth you spilt red wine on.”
“I’m sorry. I can get it out.”
“You can’t fix what’s already ruined.”
DAY 196
DECEMBER 26
I stumble to the kitchen, hung over from doubling my own prescription for sleep. Note on the coffeemaker.
Your father called last night. He wants you to meet him by the hotel pool for lunch and a swim. Since the two of you have plans, I’ve gone to work.
I walk along the breakwater of the bay. Jump from boulder to boulder, my bare feet soft from months of being in slippers. I don’t feel the cuts till I walk across the lawn of Dad’s hotel to the pool.
I look for Dad through a hole in the privacy hedge.
His position is twelve o’clock. He is flanked by a blonde at eleven, a piña colada at one, and a brunette at two. I don’t feel comfortable at three.
I swim home to drown myself in the deep end of a vodka bottle.
DAY 197
DECEMBER 27
Note on my bathroom mirror.
I couldn’t wake you. Hope you had a nice sleep. I didn’t even realize you were home last night till your father called at ten screaming at me because you never showed up yesterday. He says he called you all afternoon and then came over, but you weren’t home. He thinks you blew him off for Zack. I warned you about blowing this. He’s really pissed, Marty. He’ll be over at 9:00 A.M. to talk to you. Don’t leave. I’ve gone to work. Somebody has to.
Time: 8:30 A.M. I brush my teeth. Gently. My head aches so bad my hair hurts.
Knocking on the door.
“Marty, it’s me. I watched your mom leave. I know you’re there!” Zack yells.
Not good. I open the door. “You have to go now!”
His eyes grow big, so they can take in all of the new me. “I wanted to see you.”
“Well, you have. My dad is in town and you don’t want to see him.”
“For once in her life she’s right,” Dad says, coming out of the stairwell. “Leave and don’t come back.”
“Please,” I whisper to Zack.
Zack turns on Dad and says, “You’re a jerk. I’ve been here for three years. Where’ve you been? Not here, picking her up when she faints. Or trying to get her to eat or not puke.”
“I also didn’t call you asking advice on how to control my daughter. You remember phoning me about that?” Dad fires back.
Zack retreats and says, “One day, Marty, maybe you’ll make your own decisions. I’ll be gone by then.” He leaves.
“Me too,” Dad says, “because between your lack of effort and the way I’ve been used, I don’t see a reason to stick around.”
I start to cry.
“Tears never work with me,” he says, heading for the stairs. “Just ask your mother.”
He’s really leaving. For good. I run to Mom’s bedroom window. Just like when I was little. I see him walk across the parking lot. No. Don’t go. Don’t leave.
Little kid. Powerless.
He’s at the car. His bags are in the backseat. He was leaving before he got here.
My fist goes through the window. My anger flies away. Bravery bleeds out my knuckles.
Dad runs back.
I’m happy to see him. Scared.
He walks right over the broken glass I’m standing in. Takes my hand. Examines it. Picks out pieces of glass. “No real damage. I’ve had enough of your bullshit. I give up. Get a job. Go to school. Do something. A flight leaves for New York in two hours. I’ll be on it. Tell your mother after I’m gone.” He washes his hands in the kitchen. Slams the door when he leaves.
I go to my bathroom. Throw up. Take some Gravol.
Zack gone. Dad. Gone. Mom. She’ll never forgive me. My fault. Cherri shouldn’t talk to me. Lily. I didn’t say good-bye.
> “Silver Lake Institute. May I direct your call?”
“Eating disorder unit. Patient phone…please.”
“ED unit, nurses’ station,” answers a voice I don’t know.
“Ah, they made a mistake. I was trying to reach a patient.”
“Your name and who you are calling, please?”
“It’s Marty Black. I’m a patient. I want to talk to Lily.”
“Marty, I’m very sorry. That’s not possible…Lily passed away last night. Hang on, I’ll get Rhonda.”
I hang up.
Today is not real. Today needs to go away forever.
I look at the prescription bottle for a long time.
Tranquilizers. Tranquil. Peace.
ONE TABLET EVERY EIGHT HOURS AS NEEDED.
I take them all. And get into bed. And cry. And stop.
No more sad.
No more mad.
No more harm.
End of expectation, pressure, disappointment.
The last leaving.
DAY 204
JANUARY 3
Journal Entry # 3
I’ve had this place all wrong. The loony bin. It’s not a bin. Nothing like it. A bin sounds like something you can climb out of. Push the lid off and scramble out. I’ve seen squirrels do it. Maybe that’s where they hide their nuts too. But this place isn’t a bin. This place is a pit. Not a pit with dirt sides. Dirt would be nice. There is no dirt in this hole with stainless steel walls and a white tiled floor. The glare from the hide-nothing lights reflects their shiny surfaces. Reflects everything back at you. You cringe and squint and squirm and try to squeeze your mind under the locked doors. There is nowhere to hide and yet I am invisible. Everyone here is invisible. This is hell. I thought I was in hell before, but now I know I was only hanging out in the lobby.
Signed, M.
Journal Entry # 4
They are in their own little world here. No one paces with them. Fears with them. Cries with them. Only them. Only their world. I’m not in their world. But they are in mine. I have to live in both. Just one would be a luxury. A vacation from this both-worlds existence. The “real world” puts them here. Tries hard to remember to forget them. I want to yell, “Don’t forget about me!”
More Than You Can Chew Page 13