Cherri clears her throat. Takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t want you to fall…away.”
“Fall away? Or fall apart?” It’s a fair question.
“Both…I think we should stick together.” I can see Cherri waiting for a sarcastic reply.
“Think you can handle being a rock?”
“Yeah…and you can be my barnacle.”
A whistle breaks our Hallmark moment.
“I’M TACKING!”
“SHIT!”
I grab on to Cherri and we hit the deck together.
DAY 240
FEBRUARY 8
“Can I speak to Judith White, please?” I whisper into the phone.
“Can I tell her who’s calling, please?” the receptionist cans and pleases back.
It’s always so tempting to just say no. “Tell her it’s Marty.”
“And your last name, please?”
“Black.”
“And what company are you from?”
“I used to be with the Black and White Corporation, but they unincorporated.”
“And who are you with now?”
“Myself.”
“And the name of your organization?” the receptionist says, sounding as if she’s smiling and congratulating herself on weeding out a call for her busy boss.
“Are you a receptionist or an antagonist?” Or a former psych nurse.
“I’m sorry?”
“How long have you been at your current position?”
“Six weeks. I apologize if I should know who you are.”
Why should you know? I guess the boss doesn’t brag about her kid anymore. “You can tell Judith her daughter is on the line.” Not to mention the edge.
“Hold, please.”
On to what?
I wait. I hold. On to the silence. While the receptionist talks to my mother, trying to explain why I might be angry and make it alright with my mom, who is probably trying to explain why she hadn’t mentioned me in a way that would make it alright. I bet that the receptionist knew, by the end of her first day, that my mother needs things to be alright.
“Marty?”
“How did you know?” I kick the wall.
“Is anything wrong?” Mom’s voice is tight.
“No.”
“The new receptionist said you sounded upset.”
Leave it, Marty. Bury it. Start over. “There is a garden here.”
“It must be nice.” Mom loosens up.
“Not really.”
“Well…”
“But I want to do something about that.”
“Like what?”
“Plant something.”
“I could bring some plants. I can get them after work and bring them with me tonight.”
“Thanks, Mom. But I would like to pick them out myself.”
“Marty, you know you can’t leave the unit again until you make your weight.”
“I made it this morning–118 pounds.”
“That’s terrific, honey! I’ll bring some cham –”
“NO! You don’t drink and I’m not ready to celebrate.”
“Sorry, I meant nonalcoholic sparkling cider. Some responses are automatic.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, I know.” I suffer from them too. “But I don’t want to talk about my weight. I’m trying to deal with it. By doing something positive. Can we go get something for the garden?” Gaahd, I sound like a geek…at least I’m a positive geek.
“It would be a lot easier if –”
“I know and I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but if you would take me to buy some seeds, I could plant them…”
“You want to plant seeds?”
“I…I want to start something from the beginning…and finish it.”
“That sounds good.”
“What grows really fast?”
Mom laughs.
“I remember when I was little and you taught kindergarten, or something. You used to bring home shoeboxes with things just sprouting.”
“They were mostly marigolds and vegetables. The kids planted them from seeds and I’d bring them home to water over the weekend.”
“Nobody here cares for marigolds.” They never cared for the last ones. “What’re the other easy ones to grow?”
“I’m not sure I remember, but I know radishes and carrots for sure.”
“Carrots are perfect. Everybody likes carrots.”
“I’ll have the receptionist call around your area and find a good nursery.”
“About the receptionist…”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing. It was me. I was rude to her. Actually, I was more like a total asshole.”
Mom starts laughing.
“Mom, will you tell her I’m sorry?”
Mom gets herself under control and says, “You can tell her yourself someday soon.” She starts laughing again, but manages to choke out, “She said she couldn’t wait to meet you.”
DAY 241
FEBRUARY 9
Morning.
I work up gobs of saliva and hurl them into the sink. I keep going till there is nothing left but the elastic bands of spit hanging from my lips. I brush my teeth. Just in case. Because the bacteria in my mouth have been knitting sweaters all night for my molars. And those little sweaters are thick and heavy. I blow my nose. Think about pulling out the hairs inside it. Maybe pluck my eyebrows too. I sit on the toilet and pee hard and try to take a dump at the same time and roll my fists into my belly and press on all those organs. The bladder, the liver, the uterus, and my intestines. Anything that is attached to a hole I try to squish something out of. Out of every hole in your body you can pretty much get something. Even the wax on the end of the Q-tip, when you add it all up, equals a number. Some number that I won’t have to look at when I step on the scale in five minutes.
I’m panicking.
I’m bound to hit some speed bumps on the road to recovery. I’m not a perfect nonanorexic yet. I’ll confess later.
DAY 245
FEBRUARY 13
Everyone is inside the little cottage. I’m out by the barbeque, thinking of what a beautiful day it is while I cook the cheeseburgers I picked for the Friday meal. They smell as good as I’ve always imagined.
I look through the window while I’m flipping the burgers. The new girl, who has been here four weeks, flips me the finger. She’s not the only one. Everyone else is pissed at me too. About the french fries that Katherine is baking in the oven, and the Caesar salad with real bacon bits tossed by Mrs. Burns, and the fact that there are no carrots in sight.
Rhonda walks towards me from the main building. As she comes up beside me, she asks, “How are they coming?”
“Almost done.”
“Good. Because it’s time for you to be going.”
“Going?…Going where?”
“Home.”
“Today?”
“Right now. Nurse Brown is packing your things…”
“To make sure I don’t steal any towels?”
“…And your mom and Jackie are waiting for you in your room.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
“Do I get to say good-bye?” I look up and stare through the window.
“You said good-bye already. Little by little, as you got better. You don’t belong with them anymore.”
She’s right. There is no room, for tears in those tight faces. They’ll just keep counting calories. Not the days till we meet again.
Katherine comes out of the cottage with a tray. “I’ll take the burgers in, Marty. And you have a nice life,” she says, and smiles.
“How did you know?”
“Mrs. Burns just told me.”
“How?”
“She handed me a note in the kitchen. It said she saw leaving on Rhonda’s face. The right kind of leaving.”
I start laughing. “I can’t believe this. Catwoman’s passing notes and I’m being told I have to leave before I eat
the burgers I’ve been dreaming about for three years.”
Katherine grabs the spatula from me. “I’ll take them inside.”
“I feel sorry for you, Kath. They’re going to be really mad about having to eat this meal without me, when it was my idea.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle them.” She piles up the burgers and takes them into the cottage kitchen. She puts the platter on the table. She turns to the window and winks. I wave.
I run to my garden. The little half-barrel in the concrete courtyard. I pull up the world’s smallest carrot and walk to my room.
Rhonda, Jackie, Nurse Brown, and Mom are standing there talking. They stop as I pick up my bag with one hand. Dangle my carrot with the other.
“What’s that? Jackie asks.
“Souvenir,” I say, and grin.
Six Months Later…
AUGUST 13
“Can I have the rest of the afternoon off?” I say, and chug my carrot juice. For every free coffee Mrs. Van Daal gives me, she buys me a juice. And I drink it. Or I’m fired.
“You looking another job?” Mrs. Van Daal says, and puts down her tea.
“No.”
“You should. At least you should be getting teaching about somesing besides soup and sandwiches. You can’t vork here forever.”
She must be psychic. I picked up the art school application yesterday. But I like it here. “I’ve only been back three months.”
“Okay, you stay. For now.”
“Thank you.”
“You never ask time off before,” Mrs. Van Daal says, and raises her eyebrows at me. “Somesing important, klein muisje?”
“I need to go see a friend.”
Mrs. Van Daal pulls her chin in to her throat and raises her whole forehead this time. I know she will let me go, but not until I explain. I don’t know if I can.
“I was in the hospital with her.”
“Is she doing as good as you?”
“She’s dead.”
“You better go see her then.”
I nod my head, but make no move to leave. We both sit in silence. The right kind of silence. The kind that gives you permission to come or go or cry.
“What is her favorite color?”
Or ask what a dead person’s favorite color is–not was.
“Pink…but I don’t think anyone knows that.”
“I don’t know your favorite color,” she says, turning to me.
“It used to be black. But now I don’t have one,” I say, meeting her eyes.
—
I’m on the bus staring at the pink frosted cupcake Mrs. Van Daal gave me to take to Lily. When I said it was too late for her, Mrs. Van Daal said, “I know too late for Lily, but right time for you.” And then she stuffed into my jacket pocket what I thought was some money to buy flowers.
I get off the bus and cross the street to catch a second bus. The bus arrives and I dig in my pocket for the transfer ticket. I hand it over and start to walk to the backseats.
The driver clears his throat and says, “Ah, miss? What am I supposed to do with this?”
I turn around and he’s looking at me and holding up a newspaper clipping about the size of a transfer. I turn back, take it from him, and read: LOCAL WOMAN, SEVEN-TEEN YEARS OLD, ATTEMPTS SUICIDE BY OVERDOSE.
I put the cupcake on top of the bus fare box and the clipping in my mouth, and drive my hands into my pockets to find the transfer ticket. I’m shaking as I hand it to him. I sit down in the front seats behind the driver that are reserved for the handicapped because my legs are paralyzed.
I put Lily’s cupcake beside me and try to hold still the clipping that Mrs. Van Daal gave me and that I tried to give to the bus driver. Even with two hands resting on my lap, it’s hard to read: ATTEMPTS SUICIDE BY OVERDOSE. SHE WAS FOUND IN HER HOME AT APPROXIMATELY 7:00 P.M. LAST EVENING AND RUSHED TO A LOCAL HOSPITAL, WHERE SHE IS CURRENTLY IN A COMA AND LISTED IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
They didn’t mention my name. But Mrs. Van Daal knew it was me. She cut it out of the police log in the paper and saved it. For over seven months.
For what?
I stare at the paper for a long time. And think about the space between swallowing those pills and reading about it in a piece of crumpled yellow newspaper. A lifetime.
Alivetime.
The trip to see Dad in New York. Looking at art and boats. Crossing a busy street on a red light, he held my hand and said, “It’s alright, you’re with me.”
The grocery store with Mom. Laughing in the aisles about her allowing me three anorexic behaviors per trip. Our therapy sessions with Jackie. Finally letting out all the things I’d shoved down for so long. Going to lunch after because there was room for food. And Mom taking me to an AA meeting. Giving me credit for her quitting drinking. I said it was too much credit. She said, “You got me to stop. I have to stay sober.”
And Cherri. Just being with Cherri.
The bus hits a bump.
I look out the window and see we are passing the cemetery. See all the graves of people who don’t have to wait for buses, or worry about missing their stop. Stop.
“STOP!” I yell, and jump up next to the bus driver. “I’m sorry, this is where I need to get off.”
The driver slows down. Looks in the side mirrors for cars and then looks in the rearview mirror at me and says, “I have a daughter. Same age as your friend–the one in your paper.” He pulls the bus over and stops at the corner of the cemetery. “I guess she didn’t make it,” he says as he opens the doors.
I start down the steps, then turn around. He has sad eyes. I get to see a little of how I don’t want to look to Lily.
“Actually she did. She’s going to be okay,” I say and step onto the sidewalk.
A little smile breaks into the corners of his eyes.
“She just needs a little work.” I smile back.
“Don’t we all,” he says and laughs and closes the bus door.
I realize that I don’t know where Lily’s grave is. And that I don’t even know her last name. I go to the cemetery office. It’s not hard to find–big gray building. Parked beside it are shiny black cars big enough to lie down in. No sunroofs. Just curtains.
I walk to the front door, up a path bordered by new-looking granite headstones. No words on them. No heads under them. Showroom pieces. Last stop shopping.
The door is so heavy I grunt when I open it. My effort echoes through the foyer and brings clicking heels across the polished marble floor.
“Can I help you?” the woman with noisy shoes says in a quiet voice.
“I don’t know where my friend is buried.”
“Come with me and we’ll figure that out,” she says and turns for me to follow. Her heels sound like hammers and my running shoes squeak like rubber ducks.
She leads me to a little office. As soon as we pass through the doorway, all sound stops. Deep green carpet. A religious tapestry on one wall. Lined yellow drapes. Floral-patterned upholstered chairs. No rock anywhere. Only beautiful sound-sucking softness.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says, looking into my eyes. “But I can help you find your friend’s place of rest.” She sits behind her desk and gestures for me to take a chair.
“Thank you.”
“What is her name?”
“How did you know?”
She points to the melting pink cupcake. “I didn’t think you came here for a picnic.”
“No. It’s for Lily.”
She types into her computer. “And Lily’s last name?”
“I don’t know.” I look down at my lap.
“Do you know when she passed away?”
“Not exactly…Christmas.” I wasn’t around. Wasn’t around when she needed me. Want to leave now. Want this woman to stop asking me what I know and start judging me for what I don’t.
I get up from the chair.
“When was Lily born?”
“Today. Nine years ago,” I say, and sink back into the chair. A box of Kl
eenex slides onto my lap. The sight of it makes my eyes hot and my throat close up. My nose starts to run. I sneeze.
“You’re not allergic to dogs are you?” She frowns.
I shake my head no. It’s a strange question because I saw a sign saying NO DOGS ALLOWED when I came in the front gate.
“Good,” she says and smiles.
Someone told me once that every time a person sneezes, someone dies. I guess I just brought them more business.
I sneeze again, trying to hold back my tears. I hear a shuffling sound.
She opens a drawer in her desk, looks into it, and says, “You can come out now. It’s okay. Go do your job.”
From behind the desk trots a dog smaller than the box of tissues on my lap. It’s a Chihuahua. It sits at my feet and looks up at me with big brown bulging eyes, like marbles in a white cue ball of a head. It yips a warning before launching itself onto the arm of my chair. It looks at me, then at the tissues, then back to me again.
“His name is Taco.”
Taco flattens his ears, pulls his dog lips back into a smile, licks his nose with a little pink Band-Aid of a tongue, and wags his tail along the chair arm like a windshield wiper.
I pat my lap. He steps onto it and starts licking my hand.
Lily would have loved you.
I cry now. Right in front of this patient stranger and silly dog. I can’t help it.
“Good boy, Taco. Go to work,” she says and leaves the office.
Taco starts nudging the box on my lap. I grab it so it doesn’t fall. He sticks his face into the box and scoops tissues out with his nose. He grips one with his teeth and waves it around like a bullfighter with his cape. He stops and stares at me. Drops the Kleenex and snatches another one and flings it at me. I am trying to cry for Lily and not for me, and not laugh at this dog who is just doing his job. He is a canine Kleenex dispenser. And he is going to bury me if I can’t find his OFF switch.
“Taco, if I take one, I won’t be able to stop.”
Taco stops his frenzy. Sits on my thigh, narrows his eyes, and growls.
I take a tissue. Taco curls into a ball like a cat and goes to sleep.
More Than You Can Chew Page 17