by Casey Hays
Maxine had mentioned that everyone referred to Benjamin King as simply—King. And King did not necessarily intend for his comment to be funny, even with his chuckle. He actually was a bona fide chef who owned King’s Bistro down on Main Street. In my mind’s eye, one image exploded at the mention of the word chef: abundance of food.
Food for hoarding.
Everyone at the table—Emma King, Jay Martin, Pastor Alvarado—filled their plates, talking and joking as they ate, forks clinking. I took tiny bites, avoiding their eyes, and in that way, I tolerated my first meal.
Emma, I noticed, was mindful of physical contact, never touching the others as she passed the dishes, and even holding her fork or her napkin at a particular or unusual angle. Her motions were imperceptible really, slight agitations. Most people would never have detected them. But I was not most people. And I noticed. She was different. Perhaps as different as I was—in her own way.
But I will admit, it was the first meal I’d ever eaten surrounded by what appeared to be true happiness. And despite Emma’s careful, physical detachment, or Jay’s strange, visual perception, or even Pastor’s ability to hear Emma’s cell phone ringing in her schoolbag upstairs while he sat right across from me at the table, not one of these kids exhibited any signs that they were orphans. Of course, Emma wasn’t exactly an orphan. She’d lived with King since birth, and he’d adopted her years ago. But the two boys at the table had been here five years or so. I assumed they had come from a life similar to mine. Why else would they be here? And yet, as far as I could tell, King made no distinction between them and Emma. They were his sons; he was their father, and anything left over from their horrendous past was a distant memory. And any outsider could easily mistake them for a true-blue biological family.
I took another swallow of mashed potatoes, allowing the cheerfulness floating among us to penetrate me just a little. Maybe life really would be different here. And I began to hope against all hope.
But in the back of my mind, I kept my fears intact.
* * *
The light from the wide-open refrigerator left a small triangular glow on the floor of the pitch-black kitchen. I’d taken one spoon from a drawer—only one—to scoop the food into my containers. Afterwards, I would wash, dry, and replace it, and with any luck, nobody would know I’d been here.
I took small portions at first, as I always did. Small enough to escape being detected. No sense in drawing unwanted attention to myself in the beginning. No. I would ease into it and perhaps keep myself in this foster home just a bit longer. Just until my birthday. In February, I would become my own problem.
Soon, my containers held a variety of items: green beans, baked squash, apple cobbler, sweet potatoes, chili, enchiladas. The kitchen’s leftovers compiled throughout the week became my own little hoard. And when all twelve containers had been given one treasure or another, I washed the spoon, replaced it, and climbed the stairs, expertly balancing my night’s find with each silent step.
Only when the containers were safely deposited into my own tiny refrigerator, did relief flood me. I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the shadow of the sweetly-humming appliance squatting there in the darkness. My stomach rumbled.
The stash lasted only an hour inside the refrigerator before I tore open the door and licked every container clean, scooping chili and enchiladas into my mouth with only my fingers. Soon, a graveyard of dirty plastic, empty of all contents, lay scattered across the floor.
I clutched my stomach—too full—and my gorge began to rise, but I held it back. I’d worked too hard to let it go to waste, so I fought with every ounce of my strength. It was essential for survival. I knew the feeling would pass. It always did, and I would be fed.
But the hunger? It always came back. And this time, I’d lost too much control. There was nothing left for later. Nothing more until tomorrow night.
I managed to clean my containers in the tiny, private bathroom—another luxury I’d never experienced—before climbing under the blankets and easing my way into a fitful, gut-aching sleep.
* * *
And so life in Benjamin King’s group home began. He checked me into Park High School—just another California school in a long chain of California schools, made sure I had appropriate clothes for the changing fall weather, and tried his best to create opportunities for me to interact with the other kids in the home. At some things, he succeeded.
But mostly, I kept to myself. I didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to know the other foster kids. I wanted to be left alone. Fortunately, King didn’t push me. He seemed to be allowing me to adjust on my own terms and at my own pace.
My nightly rendezvous continued. There was always an overwhelming amount of food in the kitchen after midnight. Leftovers from dinner. Doggie bags from the Bistro or other restaurants. A never ending stream of pastas and sauces and breads of all kinds. My containers welcomed all of it. And still, my hunger persisted.
Weeks passed before anyone noticed the disappearances. It always played out this way in every home where I’d lived. I’d get away with my crime for a while, and then, usually due to a stupid mistake on my part, I’d give myself away. Sometimes it involved taking too much at once. Other times, I’d spilt something and failed to clean it up thoroughly. This time, I ate the wrong thing.
“Has anyone seen my cheesecake?”
Jay was at the refrigerator, his tall frame bent just enough to poke his head inside and rummage through its contents. King stood at the stove, flipping omelets.
“You can’t have cheesecake for breakfast, Jay. We’ve been over that.”
“That’s not the point.” He slammed the door closed and ran a hand through his hair. “I had a whole piece left. I just put it in there last night, and now it’s gone!”
“Are you sure it isn’t there? Did you check in the door?”
“King! Who are you talking to? I wouldn’t miss it if it was here.”
King chuckled at that. “You’re right, you’re right. Forgive those of us who are only fortunate enough to have 20/20.”
“Yeah, but I can’t see a thief. This is one time when sense of smell would be pretty handy instead.”
At the breakfast nook, I shrank behind the book I was no longer reading. The sweet smell of the cheesecake flooded my memory. It was the first thing I’d taken last night, and it patiently waited for me upstairs. I didn’t normally make a habit of taking individual items. It was a general rule to take from the mass. But I just couldn’t resist that cheesecake.
Jay and King’s conversation continued with ideas of “having a talk with the others about personal property” and “stealing will not be tolerated in this house.” That last comment was Jay’s input, but it didn’t matter. I knew what I’d done was wrong. I’d always known it. But I couldn’t stop myself.
I sat very still, hiding the lower half of my face behind the book in the same way Margaret used to hide hers. I waited for a harsh finger to be pointed in my direction, ready to take the blame. But it didn’t happen. King continued to fry omelets while Jay gulped down a glass of orange juice, and neither of them seemed to notice I was even there.
In my room, I frantically gobbled up the cheesecake, although I had hoped to keep it just a bit longer—just until after school. But that was no longer an option. I licked the tips of my fingers and rinsed the container in the bathroom sink. I had to be more cautious.
* * *
And I was—from that day forth. I carefully selected my items. I left no evidence behind. I ate my fill in the midnight hours. And I grew hungrier and hungrier with each bite.
The holidays approached, and as usual, my excitement heightened. Holidays meant more food, and in King’s household, it meant an overabundance. Lots and lots of leftover turkey and ham and sweet potato pie. And I anticipated how easy it would be to get my stash without anybody noticing.
What I didn’t anticipate was that King was already on to me. He knew how easy it would be to get my stash
, which made me wonder if he couldn’t read my mind. Nevertheless, for the first time in my life, someone cared enough to confront me before I gorged myself to the point of no return.
The knock on my door came just after dinner one night in the middle of November.
“Sabrina?” King’s head poked in between the half-closed door and the frame. “Can we talk a minute?”
I sat up on the end of my bed and nodded. My heartbeat quickened.
King slipped in, closed the door, and wheeled the desk chair to the end of the bed. He sat and faced me.
“How are you?”
I raised a brow. “Fine. How are things with you?”
He smiled, lowered his head. “Listen. I know about . . . .” He indicated the refrigerator with a nod.
I swallowed. Here it comes. I mentally began packing my plastic containers into the bottom of my duffel bag. I closed my eyes.
“How?”
King sighed and placed a warm hand on my knee. “I read the file Maxine sent with you. You have the most unusual eating disorder I have ever seen in my life.”
My eyes flashed open. “You’ve known all this time?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Why haven’t you kicked me out?”
“Over food? Sweetie, food is my specialty. Why in the world would I kick you out over a piece of cheesecake? In fact, I’ll make you a cheesecake of your very own if you’d like. And you won’t have to share a single piece.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not only was he not throwing me out, he was offering to make me a cheesecake! I stared at him in stunned silence while he continued.
“Sabrina, you are not so unique. Trust me, I’ve seen similar things evolve in different ways with each child that’s come into my home. Your problem runs deep, but it’s not impossible to overcome it. And it’s not just about food. But . . . because you’ve chosen to make it about food, food is where we shall begin.”
I watched him, confused.
“I have an idea.” He stood and moved toward the refrigerator. I tensed when he swung open its door to peer inside. Six of my beautiful containers were still full. The other six sat on top waiting to be filled when the house grew quiet.
“You fill all of these up every night?”
I nodded.
“Every one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” He nodded, closed the door, and picked up one of the empty containers. He sat, thumbing the lid. He popped it open, pressed it closed again.
“You know you can have all the food you want, right? The kitchen is open in the daytime, too.”
He smiled. I played with the end of a strand of hair and eyed him nervously.
“Will you try something for me?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“How about when you’re ready—and not until you’re ready, understand—you try filling up all of your containers, except this one?”
He held it up. I felt a rush of fear like hot lava consume me.
“I—I don’t know,” I whispered.
King’s warm fingers squeezed my knee again. “I believe you can, Sabrina. And I will help you. You never have to be afraid of being forced out of this house for any reason. You are here to stay. So . . . you might as well give this a shot, right?”
I studied his eyes—the honey-filled eyes of someone who, for once, truly cared about me and not about what benefit he might get from the State by taking me in. It was the most foreign concept to me, and yet, I knew I could trust his words. I read the future in them.
“I can try.” My words were soft and unsure, but they were true.
“Trying is always good. If you don’t try, you’ll never know the endless possibilities life may hold for you.”
* * *
That night, I filled all twelve of my containers, and the next night, too. And the next. King’s idea was easier said than done. Thanksgiving came, and Thanksgiving went, Christmas came, and Christmas went, and I stuffed my containers to overflowing.
Through it all, King was there, supporting me, reminding me that he was never going to let me starve ever again—not like Margaret, who’d punished me once by depriving me of food for two full days. No. King promised to provide for me like no other person had done before him. He even popped into the kitchen one night as I sat basking in the light of the refrigerator and helped me with my collection.
In time, I learned to trust him fully. My resolve fractured and began to slowly seep, taking with it my fears. I came out of my shell little by little. I scooped slightly bigger helpings onto my plate at dinnertime, and even joined in on a conversation or two occasionally. And when Emma convinced me to join the others for a day at the beach and a night of card games, I didn’t decline. I won every match. But how could I not . . . when I can read minds.
And then, one night—I did it. Eleven containers.
It was my first step toward overcoming my unique eating disorder, and I can’t say the rest of the journey was easy. I had my moments, and for a few weeks just before my birthday, I relapsed once or twice. But King never defined these as failures, only minor setbacks on the road to recovery.
“You can’t conquer a vat of spaghetti and meatballs in one sitting, Sabrina,” he said with smile. “You’ll get there.”
And he was right. A day finally came when I no longer felt neglected. I no longer felt ignored. I no longer felt the need to fill up the emptiness to stop the hurting. Instead I felt loved. I felt like I was part of a family for the first time in my life.
I felt like smiling.
As I sit here now, staring at twelve empty containers stacked on top of a small humming refrigerator, it’s exactly what I do.
About this story: Sabrina Dowe is a character from the supernatural romance, The Cadence by Casey Hays. The Cadence relays the tale of Emma King and her entourage of supernaturally gifted characters who must band together to overcome an immortal enemy before it destroys more lives. Filled with friendship, family, love, and a new twist on the world of magic, The Cadence is thrilling from beginning to end.