More Than You Can Chew

by Marnelle Tokio

  One chair left. Beside Rhonda. I walk through the middle of the circle and sit.

  Rhonda puts her hand on mine. Gives me the all-systems-go? look.

  I nod.

  Rhonda clears her throat and says, “Okay, Marty, you can start.”

  My heart is pounding. Start.

  My hands are shaking. Start.

  My stomach is gargling bile. Start.

  My throat is closing like elevator doors and the words are going to be trapped.

  LEAP!

  “Christmas at home didn’t go so hot.”

  I hear lots of breath escaping. Including my own.

  “It sucked. You probably guessed that because I swallowed $200.00 worth of this-will-make-you-feel-better.” I laugh. Alone. “Truth is, I’ve been killing myself for a long time. But dying slowly just wasn’t fast enough anymore. So I downed the bottle of happy pills so I wouldn’t have to be sad anymore. So no one could be mad at me. So no one could ever leave me again. So I wouldn’t do any more harm.”

  I look around. Katherine is crying. So are a couple of others. The new girl is stone-faced.

  “Thank you, Marty,” Rhonda says, and squeezes my hand. “Anybody have anything to add?”

  Rhonda’s not surprised. “Okay, take some time to digest what Marty has shared and we’ll talk about it in group tomorrow. You have an hour and a half of free time before snack.”

  Everyone gets up to leave. Except me. And Rhonda. I don’t know what I was expecting. Loud wailing? High fives? A group hug?

  “Tough crowd,” I say to Rhonda, after everyone is gone.

  “I know what you mean, kiddo. I’ve been working this room for four years.”

  I turn to look at her. Her eyes are red. “You were crying.”

  “For joy, Marty. For joy.”

  “Why does Elizabeth seem strange?”

  “She’s been having shock therapy for depression.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “You were next on the list.”

  —

  Back in my room. Now that I’m free to walk around, I can’t think of a place to go.

  Shock therapy. Shit. Almost. This close. Just thinking about getting shock therapy is shock therapy. I’m feeling better already.

  Someone knocks on my door.

  “Come in.”

  Katherine pushes the door open, but doesn’t come in. “Did you mean it? About being lonely?”

  “Did you come here to tell me you thought I was lying?”

  “No,” she says, as she pulls at something she’d left in the hall. She walks into the room, dragging her suitcase. Katherine throws her bag and her body onto her old bed. “I thought you might like some company…Mrs. Burns will be along in a minute.”

  DAY 222

  JANUARY 21

  “Marty, telephone,” calls a voice from the hall.

  Must be Mom. Finally. Just be grateful. Try not to judge. I pick up the phone.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “No. It’s your father.”

  I hold my breath. “Sorry…hi…Dad.”

  “Marty.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you ever pull another stunt like that again…”

  “What stunt?”

  “There have been so many, it’s ridiculous. But the last one is the one I’m talking about.”

  The window…please let it be the window.

  “If you ever try to kill yourself again…I’ll pay for your funeral–but I’m not coming to it.”

  Mom told him.

  “Did you hear me, Marty?”

  Loud and clear.

  “DID YOU HEAR ME?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I stand up straight.

  “I’m not a sir! I’m your father.”

  Yes, Sir.

  “Do you want a funeral or a father?”

  Right now I’d like to be dead.

  “It’s up to you, Marty. I’m easy.”

  “No, you’re not.” Oops.

  “You’re right. I’m not. And, unfortunately, we’re a lot alike. Because we are father and daughter. And it would be a lot easier if we started acting like it. Instead of hostage and keeper.”

  “Who is who?” I’ve got nothin’ left to lose.

  “I suppose right now it’s hard to tell because I’m making all the demands. You can’t keep hurting yourself to make me come running.”

  Never worked anyways.

  “I am glad you’re okay. Your mom said it was close.”

  I can hear Dad start to choke up.

  “I know, Dad. Believe it or not, I am too.” I can barely get the words out.

  “After you get out, come to New York and visit. It’s too late to be Daddy’s little girl, but we can try the father and daughter thing. Maybe even live here for a while.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We could do lunch–I owe you one.”

  “Speaking of lunch…” I have to get off the phone or I’m going to cry.

  “I know. You have to go…I do too. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to. I love you, Marty.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  The phone rings nine times before the machine picks up. It’s my voice on the message. It’s weird to hear your own voice talking to you. My voice sounds so lifeless.

  She kept the message all these months. I would have known that if I had phoned the house.

  A million beeps. Then dead air.

  “Hi, ahh…if you have time, maybe you could –”

  “Marty?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I didn’t recognize your voice.”

  “Are you screening the calls?”

  “I don’t feel like talking to anyone.”

  “You talked to Dad.”

  “I…called him.”

  “And told him what I had done after telling me not to.”

  “I know, Marty. Please, don’t be mad. I was afraid he would blame me…”

  I know all about that fear.

  “And then I didn’t know how to tell you I’d told him. I’m sure it was a shock.”

  “Thanks for saving me from the other kind.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, just thanks.”

  “What? Thanks for nothing?”

  “Just the opposite.”

  “Okay…so how did it go with your father?”

  “We’re going to try something new.”

  “Marty, I know it hasn’t always been that great, but I’ve tried to be a good mother and I know I have at times. If you give me another chance before you go live with him…”

  “Apparently, I have to give myself a chance first. You should know that from AA.”

  “I do, Marty. I just didn’t know you did.”

  “Why don’t we try to start over when I get home?”

  “That sounds good. We could have a starting-over party. For your birthday. You missed your birthday…”

  I forgot all about my birthday. Or did I?

  “…You were in the coma, turning eighteen when you should have been out in the world. I sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to you. Did you hear me? Did you hear anything I said?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t. What day is it? It’s hard to tell in here.”

  “It’s one day at a time, Marty. One day at a time.”

  DAY 233

  FEBRUARY 1

  “Marty! Telephone. Again!”

  I check the clock. 3:30. Must be Dad. Mom called already.

  “Hi.”

  “Klein muisje?”

  “Mrs. Van Daal?” I’m sure as hell not psychic.

  “Yes, leiveling. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “Bisy. Very bisy. I miss my little mouse.”

  “I’m not so little anymore.”

  “How much you weigh?”

  “116 pounds.”

  “That is nothing. I weigh 100 pounds more. You need to catch up to me. I could bri
ng you some food.”

  “No, you can’t. They won’t allow it.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re afraid you might put something in it.”

  “Like what would I put in da food?”

  “Taste.”

  “So you gain a sense of joke, too?”

  “I regained it.”

  “Good! You going to need it when you come back to vork.”

  “Mrs. Van Daal, I…but –”

  “No big buts, except mine,” she laughs. “I already give you a raise. Your mother, she says you need uplifting.”

  “Thanks. I’ll stop by when I get out.”

  “I buy you a coffee…and a donut.”

  DAY 239

  FEBRUARY 7

  “So you got a day pass,” Katherine says, not bothering to hide her jealousy.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Going anywhere special?”

  “No. Just on the boat, with my ex-best friend.”

  “I didn’t know you had a –”

  “A boat? I don’t. It’s her family’s.”

  “I was talking about the her – I didn’t know you had a best friend.”

  “I did…once.” I had Cherri. Cherri Salmon was my best friend. Until I screwed that up too.

  —

  So here I am on the boat. Sitting on the bow. In my old favorite place. A before place. And as long as I don’t look back at the cockpit–at Willy steering, at Cherri’s mom staring at me with worry, at Mr. Fish trying not to look at me, and Cherri, who is hiding down below–as long as I keep facing west, I can pretend that a lot of shit didn’t happen.

  It used to be so natural. Sitting here. It was my place. And everybody knew it. I belonged as much as the jib, the cleats, or the anchor. But it’s different now.

  I look over the side. At the water rushing by the hull. At my legs hanging over–two little white ropes, with ankles for knots and toes for frayed ends. The bow dips, and plunges my legs into the sea. And when the bow rises again, the water grips my bones like she wants to take me with her. But her fingers just slide across my skin. There is nothing for her to hang on to.

  Out of nowhere come the dolphins to get a free ride in our bow wake. Beautiful isn’t a big enough word to describe them. Steel blue. All rounded. No sharp edges. Fat. Fat and beautiful. And alive. I almost envy the figurehead, with her spine grafted to the bow. She’s close enough to touch them, but her hands are tied behind her back. She can’t plug her nose when her head gets dunked underwater. She has to hold her wooden breath. I realize I’ve been holding mine. It bursts out of me and makes a little whistle. The sound grabs the attention of a smaller dolphin. He rolls on his side and eyes me. Not asking, but daring me to join him. He looks naughty with his curly smile. He backpedals with his fluke to stay in the wake for more than his turn. A big dolphin nudges him and he sinks to move to the back of the line. He’ll be back. The other dolphins don’t pay too much attention to me. Too busy catching their waves. The spray from their blowholes kisses my mouth. I taste their wet salty breath. Here comes my guy again. Rolling over, working his fluke, head nodding, his weird triangle arms patting up and down, his whole body and his eye saying, “Come on in–the water’s fine.” His grin teases, “Chicken!” I can’t stand it anymore–just watching. I reach out with my foot. To touch him. But the bow dips and I kick him in the belly. He dives and the playground monitor surfaces and snaps her bottled teeth at my toes and gives me the look. I’ve got detention. The rest go off to play somewhere else. I can chalk up another unique achievement. I’m the only person on the planet to ever piss off a dolphin.

  My throat closes up and my face gets hot. The tears come uninvited. I watch them fall over the side. I’m wishing the dolphins would come back to taste my salty apologies. The way I tasted their breath. But they’re really gone. My I’m sorry’s always come too late.

  —

  “I’m tacking, barnacle!” Willy yells at me and spins the wheel like a Vegas roulette.

  I grab hold of the lifelines and the boat heels over to my side. The jib makes a ripping sound as it comes across the bow and slams into my back, almost tearing me from the deck as it fills. It finally rests over the water, full of wind and satisfied.

  I hear Willy cracking up, having pulled off one of his favorite tricks. He gave me the nickname “barnacle” ’cause I’m the only person who has never been dumped overboard by one of his terrorist tacks.

  “Marty, are you alright?” Mrs. Fish calls, her voice too high.

  “I’m fine,” I say and turn to reassure her, but she sees the tears and thinks Willy made me cry. Mrs. Fish hauls off and whacks her twenty-year-old son across the back of the head like he’s six. She says something to him. Too low for me to hear. And she smacks him again.

  “I’m sorry, Marty!” he yells at me, and moves in case his mother isn’t finished.

  Now I know for sure things are bad. I know for three reasons. One: I’ve never seen Willy’s mom hit him. And he has given her lots of opportunities. Two: Willy has called me everything except Marty. And three: he has never ever said “I’m sorry” to me for anything. Not the time I was taking a shower, when he picked the bathroom lock and poured a bucket of ice water on my head and I slipped on a chunk of ice and fell and sprained my wrist. Not that day that I had fallen asleep on the deck of the boat. He untied my top and waited till we were pulling into the yacht club to scream at me to get the mainsail down or we were going to crash, and I jumped up half asleep and didn’t realize I had on only half a bathing suit till the gas dock boys started clapping. Willy ran to me laughing and said, “You better cover up those monkey bumps!” and handed me two Band-Aids. The worst was when he would pin me to the ground by sitting on my chest, with his knees on my shoulders. He would lean over till his face was about a foot and a half from mine. And smile. Then make fish lips and work up a wad of spit that he would let dangle from his lips a couple inches, and then he’d suck it back up into his mouth. Willy did this over and over, each time letting the elastic goober stretch an inch closer to my face. It was a game of chicken. Move or open your mouth to scream and he would lose his load and you’d being wearing it as face mask. Or worse. One time he did it to Cherri and she got her hand loose and grabbed his baggage. Cherri laughed and Willy dropped a lougie right into her mouth. She was so mad. She threw him off and ran into the house, screaming something about incest. She came back about two minutes later and threw a Dixie cup full of her own pee at Willy’s head. Then she ran down the street. Willy grabbed me and twisted my arm till I said Cherri was sorry she did it. My arm was bruised for a week. Willy never said he was sorry. But that’s because I was like a little sister.

  Now I’m just Marty. On a day pass from the nuthouse.

  The boat falls off the wind and slows. I look to the stern and Mrs. Fish waves. Willy gives me the finger behind his mother’s back. Maybe I haven’t lost my sister status completely. Except maybe with Cherri, who is still nowhere to be seen.

  I lie back. Close my eyes and feel the sun bake into me. The boat rocks. I’m tired. So tired.

  —

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  I open my eyes a little. A black silhouette with a golden aura stands over me.

  Oh, my God. I’ve died. And they actually let me into heaven.

  “Come on, sit up,” the angel says, and nudges me with her toe.

  Angels don’t nudge.

  “What time is it?” I mumble.

  “Lunchtime!” Cherri says, and whips something out from behind her back.

  I rub my eyes. She is holding my favorite sandwich. Fried abalone.

  “Don’t tell me no!” she pleads.

  “I was just –”

  “Willy got up at 5:00 to go diving to get this for you and I’ve been slaving away down in the galley and you’ve got to eat this because your mom said they won’t let you out again if you don’t eat and I promised her you’d eat and…”

  I can’t concentrate on what
she’s saying. She is crushing the sandwich, waving it around. Red lips of tomato are flapping. An angry tongue of abalone sticks out at me. And mayonnaise spittle is flying everywhere. It looks like the sandwich is doing the talking.

  “…And I’m tired of this not-eating crap and what the hell are you staring at?”

  “Cherri?”

  “What?” she says, giving it a final shake.

  “Can I have my lunch before you lose it overboard?”

  “Ah…suuure. Sorry. It’s a little wrecked.”

  “No, it’s perfect.”

  Cherri pulls another sandwich from behind her.

  “Do I have to eat that one too?”

  “No, stupid. This one’s for me. Can I sit with you, or do you want to eat…I mean be alone?”

  “Stay. Please.”

  Cherri looks unsure.

  “Don’t worry. The only thing I’m going to bite is this sandwich.”

  We eat in silence. The sandwich tastes great. I try to take bigger bites and Cherri takes smaller ones so we are even. We never had to work at being friends before. Never had to think about it. But now I do. She is trying so hard and I’ve done nothing but kick dolphins and feel sorry for myself since I got on the boat. And Cherri’s done nothing but think about me. I owe her an apology. For a lot of things.

  “I’m sorry, Cherri.”

  “For what?” She smiles and drools mayonnaise.

  “For being a pain in the ass.”

  “You’ve been sorry for a long time then.”

  I look over to see if she’s kidding. She is. And I’m about to be serious. “I’m sorry about being with Paul.”

  Cherri stops chewing and swallows hard. “For the record, Zack and I were talking about you. We were worried. And as for Paul, it takes two to tango. Forget it. He wasn’t worth losing you, my best friend.”

  “It’s a lousy excuse, but I guess I needed someone to hang on to.”

  “You could’ve hung on to me.”

  “I didn’t want to let you down.”

  “So you get together with my boyfriend?” Cherri says, and laughs.

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  Lunch is over. Willy lets the sails fill again. We sit for a while.