Purge Read online

  “Well, brownie excavator or not, Dad certainly doesn’t worship the ground I walk on,” Jenny says. She turns to Brad, who is stroking her hair. “You, on the other hand, should feel free to worship to your heart’s content.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. “Dad totally worships you. I mean, all I ever get is Jenny did this and Jenny did that and Jenny graduated summa cum laude from Yale; she’s a chip off the old block, that’s my girl.”

  Brad laughs. “Janie does a good Hal imitation.”

  But Jenny’s serious. “That’s the whole point,” she says. “I’ve always had to do things to get Dad’s attention.”

  “Aha! So I have to blame Hal for the fact that you’re a relentless overachiever, is that it?” Brad says.

  She hits him.

  “Can you be serious for a change? This is important.”

  Jenny turns back to me and actually takes my hand.

  “Janie, you should hear Dad talking about you. I thought he was going to take out a full-page ad in The New York Times when you got the lead in The Diary of Anne Frank.”

  “But —”

  “Seriously, Janie. You have no idea how hard it was for me when you were born. It was bad enough when Dad ditched Mom for Carole — but then when they had you it was like Dad was trying to replace me with a trophy daughter, just like he replaced Mom with a trophy wife.”

  Her eyes fill with tears again. I’ve got an ever-growing lump in my throat but the tears still won’t come.

  “It was easier with Harry, because he’s a boy and I know that Dad always really wanted a boy. But with you … you were this adorable little baby and I was going through this awful time in middle school — it was …”

  Brad hands her another tissue and she blows her nose, loudly.

  “Anyway … Dad doesn’t worship me any more than he worships you.”

  She looks at me, eyes brimming.

  “But I need to know something, Janie. And that’s … why? What made you get drunk and create such a scene at our wedding?”

  What do I say? I ruined your wedding because I realized the guy I’d worshiped from afar for years, who I thought cared about me, turned out to be a complete jerk? I hurt you because I was hurting myself?

  “I … well … I was really upset about something.”

  “What? Tell me what you were so upset about. Is it something to do with you wanting to rearrange the seating plans at the last minute so you could sit next to Matt Lewis?”

  The mere mention of his name is a blow to the solar plexus. How long does it take for the pain to go away? I want Jenny and Brad to leave, now, so I can go to my room and find a sock. I don’t want to have to feel this anymore.

  “Visiting hours are over,” Joe announces from the doorway. “Let’s wrap things up, people.”

  I’m totally loving Nurse Joe right now. But unfortunately, Jenny is still sitting there waiting expectantly for an answer.

  “Well … yes … kind of … it does have to do with that,” I say. “But it’s a long story and visiting hours are over. Let’s talk about it when I get out of here.”

  “Sure thing, Janie,” says Brad, getting up from the sofa and extending his hand to help Jenny. “Any idea of when you’ll be sprung?”

  “No, unfortunately. It’s indefinite incarceration with no opportunity for parole.”

  Jenny is looking like she’s got serious unfinished business, but Brad’s hustling her toward the door.

  “Jenny, Brad, wait!” I take a deep, cleansing breath. “I just want to say again how sorry I am. About the wedding. About everything.”

  Jenny turns and her eyes are brimming again.

  “Thanks, Janie.”

  She kisses me on the cheek. Brad gives me a bear hug.

  “You take care of yourself, kiddo. We need you on the outside.” Then he whispers in my ear, “If it gets really bad, call me and I’ll smuggle in escape tools in a cake or something.”

  I actually manage a giggle. Then, as soon as they’ve left, I go to my room and fill up a sock.

  July 28th

  I still can’t believe I survived the confrontation with Jenny and lived to tell the tale. But even more, I still can’t believe that she ever thought Dad would prefer me to her. It’s just so completely unthinkable. Well, I guess it’s not completely unthinkable because Jenny thought it. But still. It got me wondering about how differently we all perceive the things that go on in our lives. Like I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I live in Perfect Jenny’s shadow, and meanwhile she’s there thinking that I’m Dad’s Trophy Daughter. Hahahahahahahaha! The idea is so incredibly laughable, especially given the current circumstances. I bet Dad considers me more of a skeleton in the closet than a trophy these days.

  If surviving Jenny’s visit in one piece is the good news, the bad news is that ever since last night I’ve been thinking about Matt constantly and it’s like picking at a scab that has barely begun to heal and feeling the pain all over again. Images of the two of us together and then … well … not together … the night of Jenny’s wedding, are on this endless loop in my head, and I want, more than anything, for it to stop. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to feel it. I wish I could just edit the footage out of my brain or somehow pull the plug on the projector, because then maybe I wouldn’t feel the pain in my heart and in my stomach every time one of those pictures flashes up.

  I keep asking myself why I’m so hung up on Matt Lewis when he behaved like such an asshole. For one thing, it’s not easy to forget how gorgeous he is, like something out of an Abercrombie catalog, with his athlete’s body and the blond hair that flops over one eye. I crushed on him, instantly, the first time I met him at his parents’ country club. We ended up playing doubles, him and me against Harry and Matt’s older brother, Ben. The way Matt moved on the court was amazing, more than making up for my deficiencies with a racket. When we beat Harry and Ben, he didn’t just high-five me; he picked me up and spun me around. Just looking at him over lunch on the patio afterward, while our parents toasted the stock market with mimosas, was enough to give me butterflies.

  The thing is, Matt isn’t just gorgeous — he’s smart and funny, too. You know how some people seem to have hit the genetic jackpot? Matt’s one of those people who have it all and you can either hate them for it or fall madly in love with them. I, unfortunately, did the latter, fool that I am.

  So I’ve basically been worshipping the guy ever since the summer between seventh and eighth grade. I didn’t see him so much in eighth grade because he went to a different school, but both middle schools feed into Pine Ridge High, so in ninth grade I started seeing him on a daily basis. We were even in a bunch of honors classes together.

  In a way, though, it was harder to see him more often, because it meant I also had to experience the Mattettes — the posse of groupies that follow the guy like a flock of overeager ducklings everywhere and anywhere he goes.

  How could I have ever thought that someone like Matt would really want someone like me to be his girlfriend? I should have my head examined …. Oh, wait, I’m in a psych ward. So I guess I am having my head examined. Sigh … Not that it seems to be doing me a whole lot of good. I want to get out of here. I want to be back at home. I miss my dog and my room and my comfortable bed and my sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of bleach. I miss my iPod and my cell phone and being able to choose what to watch on TV. I miss being with my friends and being able to talk without being afraid that someone will write down everything I say. Most especially I miss being able to perform bodily functions without an audience. I even miss my little brother. I miss being able to purge into a toilet instead of a sock. I miss having a life, however miserable that life might be.

  Life at Golden Slopes is like being in some kind of alternate universe. It’s hard to imagine how I’ll ever find my way back to reality from here.

  “Where the hell is she?” Missy grumbles.

  We’re all in the
dayroom, waiting for Dr. Pardy, who is normally punctual practically to the second, to arrive for group.

  “What the hell do you care?” Callie snipes. “It’s not like you’ve got any pressing social engagements.”

  “To hell with you and your social engagements,” Missy snaps. “I’m sick of your snide frickin’ comments, Callie. Just shut the hell up, okay?”

  I immediately start to tense up, listening to the two of them go at it. I try to take a few deep breaths and practice being mindful of where I’m feeling the tension, like Ali taught us in yoga. My teeth are clenching, my shoulders are approaching ear level, my stomach hurts all of a sudden, and I can feel a knot forming at the back of my head.

  “Hey, Missy, take it easy, okay? No need to take Callie’s head off,” says Tom.

  “No one asked you, Tinkerbell,” Missy hisses. “So just butt out.”

  Tension in the room kicks up a notch with the Tinkerbell comment. I hate fighting; I always have. At home I go bury myself in my room when Mom and Dad start arguing, which is something they were doing a lot of leading up to the Wedding. But right now I hate Missy dissing Tom more.

  “C’mon, Missy, lay off the guy,” I say. “He’s just trying to help.”

  “If you ask me, Tinkerbell is the one who needs the most help around here,” Missy says. “For Christ’s sake, the guy’s freakin’ —”

  She stops before she’s able to give her supremely unqualified diagnosis of Tom, because Dr. Pardy enters the room — finally.

  The good doctor is impeccably dressed, as usual, but she doesn’t look her normal intimidatingly beautiful self; instead, she looks pale and strangely tense. I swear there must be something in the water today.

  What’s also strange is that all the Eating Disorder Nurses — Joe, Kay, and Rose — have entered the room with her. Something is definitely up.

  “Please accept my apologies for being late to group,” Dr. Pardy says. “I was delayed because I just received some rather distressing news.”

  Distressing as in what? I think. As in “There’s a huge zit developing on the tip of my nose and I’ve got a date tonight?” or as in “I backed out of the driveway and ran over the neighbor’s kid, not to mention the family dog?” I mean, there are different degrees of distressing, and not all of them warrant being late for group and looking like you’ve seen a ghost.

  “You didn’t miss much,” Callie says. “Just Missy being a complete moron, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right. Like you weren’t being a total bitch yourself.”

  Dr. Pardy puts up her hand to stop the bickering.

  “Missy and Callie, I will happily allow you to discuss your dispute later. Right now I need to tell you something that most of you will most likely find very upsetting.”

  I felt the blender in my stomach kick up into high gear. What could she possibly be about to tell us? That none of us were ever going to be let out? That our parents had disowned us for our various transgressions and we were condemned to a life of being observed by the Pee and Eating Police? Now that would be distressing.

  “I can’t tell you how much I regret having to tell you this news,” says Dr. Pardy. “I just received word that Helen Swinburne died at five thirty this morning.”

  Who the hell is Helen Swinburne? I think, until suddenly it strikes me.

  “What … you mean … the Helen who was here? Helen the Starver?”

  “Yes, Janie. I’m afraid I do mean that Helen.”

  “No way! I can’t believe it …. She can’t be dead!” Bethany cries. She breaks into hysterical sobbing.

  I share Bethany’s disbelief that Helen, the Queen of Lean, the Starver-in-Chief, is dead. But my eyes remain dry. I’m numb. I see Helen alone at the table at the end of every meal, sitting in front of a tray of untouched food. I remember the way her thin legs were in constant movement, trying to work off calories she hadn’t even consumed. I see her lying on the floor by the pay phone, her eyes rolled back in her head, her limbs twitching. And now I’ve got a new image to add to my Helen photo gallery — one of her lying there, finally still. Stilled forever … dead.

  “Wow. That’s fucked up,” Missy says, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I’ll say,” agrees Callie, their earlier dispute clearly forgotten in light of the awful news.

  “I’m sure this has come as a shock,” Dr. Pardy says.

  I look over at the Starver side of the room. Bethany is sobbing loudly. Tinka is staring at the floor blankly. Tracey sits, silent tears streaming down her face. Tom’s face is as white as his T-shirt.

  Even Royce looks pretty shaken up, and he never even met Helen.

  “But how come she died?” Tinka asks. “Couldn’t they just like feed her through a tube or something? How could they let her starve to death like that?”

  “Tinka, no one ‘let’ Helen starve to death,” Dr. Pardy explains. “We tried to help her to the best of our ability. But long-term anorexia takes a dreadful toll on the body — especially the heart. That’s how we lost Helen. Her heart failed.”

  “It’s not her heart that failed,” I say, before I can shut myself up. “We failed. All of us. Well, not just us. Her family. I heard her talking to her dad on the phone that day when she … collapsed. He was going on a business trip instead of coming to see her. She was really upset. She thought he didn’t love her.”

  Callie puts her arm around me, which I find surprising, but in a good way. Under her brittle exterior, Callie’s got a good heart. Missy hands me a tissue, because if I were normal, I would be crying and need one. But I am so not normal right now. Not normal at all.

  “Janie, you are not responsible for Helen’s death. None of you are,” says Nurse Rose, looking around the room as if daring any of us to feel guilty. “We all tried to help and support Helen to the best of our ability.”

  The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The Hamlet quote pops into my head, because even though Nurse Rose says none of us are responsible, I get the feeling she feels just as awful about Helen’s death as I do.

  “But why couldn’t they save her?” Bethany wails. “She’s so young. It’s not fair.”

  “Don’t tell me you got to this age and still think life is FAIR,” Callie yells. “Jesus, you are so freakin’ naïve!”

  She might not have said it in the kindest way, considering Bethany is so upset, but I have to hand it to Callie because once again she’s said exactly what I’m thinking but wouldn’t have dared to say. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short and miserable life, it’s that there is nothing remotely fair about anything. “Fair” is a stupid lie they teach us in nursery school; we spend the rest of our lives trying to get over the discovery that we’ve been had.

  “I’m sure you are all going to be feeling a mix of emotions over the next few days as you process Helen’s death,” says Dr. Pardy. “Just remember that the nurses and I are all here to help you.”

  A mix of emotions. I’m already feeling about a zillion feelings — so many I’m not sure where one begins and the other ends. There’s such a mess of stuff inside of me my body can’t contain it anymore. I wish I could leave group right now and go find a sock.

  “I wish it were me instead of Helen,” Tracey says, her voice quivering.

  “Why is that, Tracey?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  “Because she’s so young. She has … well, had … the rest of her life ahead of her. She could have changed. She could have done things. Good things. Happy things. But now …”

  She breaks off and reaches for the box of tissues.

  “It’s true that Helen was young and had the potential to live a normal life, Tracey,” Dr. Pardy says. “But you have that potential, too. The only difference between Helen and you is about twenty-five years.”

  Tracey laughs, but it sounds more like a sob.

  “That’s a lifetime,” she says. “If you think about it, it’s almost double Helen’s lifetime. And haven’t you ever heard about how it’s impossible to te
ach an old dog new tricks?”

  “Recovery is possible for every person sitting in this room,” Dr. Pardy says with quiet determination. “I believe that or else I wouldn’t be doing this job. I hope you all do, too.”

  Tracey sits quietly, shaking her head, tears rolling down her haggard cheeks. I get the impression she’s not convinced.

  I wonder if it’s because her eating disorder has become so much a part of who she is, she doesn’t know who she’d be without it. I mean, I don’t want to be bulimic for the rest of my life — who in their right mind would want to stick a finger down their throat and puke after every meal or snack? I guess “in their right mind” is the key phrase there. But seriously: Who would want that for themselves — or anyone else, for that matter?

  But who am I if I’m not Janie the bulimic? Bulimia has become so much a part of me that I can’t remember what it felt like not to binge and purge. It’s been this secret that I have hidden from my parents and my friends (well, except for Nancy) and the rest of the world. It’s the way I can let off the pressure of always feeling like I’m not smart enough, I’m not thin enough, not pretty enough, not funny enough, just plain not enough enough.

  Damn, I feel like puking so badly it hurts. I move restlessly in my chair. I wonder if they’ll let me go to the bathroom without the Pee Patrol, given the shock I’ve experienced. Hmmm. I’m not willing to take a chance on it.

  Then I decide to use one of Helen’s strategies; I guess it’s like some kind of sick memorial to her.

  “Can I go to my room and get my journal?” I ask. “I forgot it and I think I should be writing down some of my feelings about this.”

  Dr. Pardy gives me this X-ray look. I’m sure she sees right through me and she’s going to say no and then I’m going to be stuck sitting here for the rest of group unable to listen or concentrate or do anything except think about how desperately I need to purge.

  “Can’t you wait until after group, Janie?”