Purge Page 3

  “So what are you in for?” Tom says. It sounds like a prison movie question. I got ten years for donut consumption and fraud.

  “Persistent Puking,” I tell him. “You?”

  He hesitates for a minute, then says, “I passed out when I was doing sprints with Dad. I said it was just heat exhaustion, but Mom took me to the doctor and he said … well …”

  Instead of finishing his sentence, he just lifts up the Mets shirt and, I swear, you can see the outline of every single rib. Damn. I was hoping he was one of us.

  “A Starver,” I say.

  “That’s what the doctor told my mother. Dad doesn’t believe it. He says anorexia is a girl disease.”

  “It’s fair to say that you are the only guy Starver in here,” I tell him. “But there are plenty of Generally Psycho guys, so don’t worry about not having anyone to hang out with.”

  “That’s okay,” Tom says. “I’m not really in the mood for being with people right about now.” He blushes again. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Well, Tom, I’ll be your best friend and play with you every day as long as you promise me one simple thing,” I tell him.

  “Okay, what?”

  “Whatever you do … make SURE you’re on time for lunch.”

  July 21st

  I’ve been wondering: Why do some people end up being Barfers and others Starvers? Or all the other weird ways of eating in between, like people who binge eat but don’t puke, or eat and then exercise for three hours, or pop diet pills to help them not eat? When you think about it, there’s a wealth of ways you can be screwed up about food and eating — or not eating, as the case might be. What makes someone turn into a Helen, a Bethany, or a Tom instead of a Missy or a Callie — or a me, for that matter? Is it a different gene for Barfing and another one for Starving?

  I can’t imagine being a Starver. I like food too much. Well, that’s not exactly true. I guess I have what you might call a love-hate relationship with food — love to eat it but hate to have eaten it. As soon as I finish eating, it’s like this tape starts playing in my head: “You are SO FAT! What the hell did you eat that for? You’re such a pig. No one is ever going to like you because you’re just so disgusting and they’ll get ill just looking at you.” Then all I can think about is how quickly I can get to a bathroom to puke, because puking is the only thing that seems to make the tape stop … at least till the next time I’m full.

  Was there ever a period of time when I was able to love food unreservedly, without thinking of it as “the enemy” the minute it was in my stomach? When I was a little girl, was I like Harry, constantly running to Mom to beg for cookies? Was there a time when I could go to birthday parties and eat a slice of cake without feeling guilty, like I was doing something bad? Was I able to eat a bar of chocolate without hearing that critical voice in my head?

  If there was such a time, it’s been lost in a haze of constant dieting and bingeing, overtaken by all the hours I’ve spent gazing down the toilet bowl while sticking my fingers down my throat.

  What is it like being at your family’s dinner table? Discuss.

  That’s the question Dr. Pardy has posed to the group this morning. It’s a joint Starver–Barfer assemblage. Helen and her skinny minions are clustered on sofas by the window. Callie, Missy, and I are on the opposite side of the room, in Pukerville. One thing I learned pretty quickly is that there’s a sort of seating apartheid in this place. After only three days, I’ve learned that we Barfers need to stick together.

  When Tom walks in, you can almost feel the frisson of shock, as if some naked guy has walked into the girls’ locker room. Tinka starts whispering in Bethany’s ear. Missy lets out a wolf whistle. You’d think they’d never seen a guy before.

  Tom’s face turns ripe tomato; he looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, and I sure know that feeling. So I catch his eye and gesture to the empty armchair next to me.

  “You know him already?” Callie says, nudging my ribs with her elbow. “You’re a fast worker.”

  For some reason this makes me really pissed. I mean, all I did was offer the guy a chair; it’s not like I jumped his bones or anything. Tom’s SO not my type. He’s too thin, for one thing. I could never go out with someone who’s thinner than I am, because I’d be obsessing the entire time over whether he thought I was fat — even more than I normally obsess about being fat, which is a lot. Besides, Tom’s just too — I don’t know — pretty, with his blond hair and high cheekbones. He and Missy would be a great pair — I can just see them living in a four-bedroom colonial in Darien complete with perfectly trimmed lawn, white picket fence, and a minivan full of blond-haired, blue-eyed brats.

  I tell Callie to shut up and then introduce Tom to the Barfers sitting on the sofa with me. Callie’s revving up to interrogate him when Dr. Pardy comes in and announces that we’re going to talk about what it’s like to eat meals at home.

  Now there’s something I’d rather not think about. It’s bad enough to have to eat dinner at my house without having to talk about it, too.

  So what’s it like? Well, let’s see — it depends on if Dad gets home from work on time or if he’s late. Scenario A: Dad makes it home from work. As soon as we’re all sitting around the table comes the inevitable: “So, how was school today?” Predictable question, to which I give an equally predictable answer: “Fine.” Once in a while Dad gets mad at me for the monosyllabic response, but most of the time I think he just chalks it up to teenagerhood. Harry is too young to have caught on to my strategy, so he launches into a lengthy diatribe about the injustice of homework and how much he hates his math teacher. Once Dad has half-listened to Harry, he launches into telling Mom about his day, and Harry and I are basically out of his consciousness unless we start fighting or use bad table manners.

  Scenario B: Dad says he’s going to make it home from work on time, but doesn’t. Mom stomps around the kitchen, sighing and huffing every time she looks at the clock. Harry whines that he’s hungry. We wait around until we’re all famished enough to eat Purina Dog Chow and finally Mom says we might as well go ahead and eat before all her slaving away over a hot stove goes to waste. I’m so hungry I stuff my face until my stomach seems to expand about six inches over the top of my jeans. Then I can’t wait to get away from the table to puke so it doesn’t stay that way.

  Scenario C: Dad’s away on a business trip, so we just have a simple dinner on time. This is my second favorite scenario.

  Scenario D: Mom’s going out, so she says Harry and I can just order pizza. This is my completely favorite scenario, because the two of us eat in the den while we watch TV, and that’s way better than being stuck at the dinner table being forced to listen to the latest fluctuations in the stock market. But pizza’s one of those foods that I always scarf too much of; inevitably, I puke it up during a commercial. Sometimes, when I’m really bad, I eat another piece after I’ve puked up the first few. Then I puke that one up, too.

  So there it is: what it’s like to eat at Casa del Ryman. Get it in, get it over with, and get it out — that’s my motto.

  “Before we start, we’ve got a new group member,” says Dr. Pardy. “Tom, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself and why you’re here?”

  Poor Tom looks like he wishes he could melt into the armchair.

  “Uh … my name’s Tom,” he says, kind of unnecessarily since Dr. Pardy just told everyone his name. I can see his hand shaking where it rests on his jean-clad knee. I feel like taking hold of it for moral support, but I couldn’t bear the flak I’d get from Callie. Plus we’re not supposed to get all touchy-feely with the other patients. It’s another one of the many Golden Rules here at Golden Slopes.

  “I — I — I’m here because, well, I guess … because they tell me I’m anorexic.”

  He gets strange looks from some of the Starvers because he’s sitting in Pukerville.

  I can feel the denial question coming on. After only a few days in this place
, I’ve already got the hang of being crazy.

  “And do you think you’re anorexic, Tom?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  Tom looks down at the floor, like there’s something completely fascinating there.

  “I dunno. Maybe … well, I guess.”

  Okay, Tommy-boy’s had his “I’m Tom and I’m a Starver” moment. Can we move on, please?

  “So, Tom, what are some of the things you enjoy doing, when you’re not at Golden Slopes?” asks Dr. Pardy.

  “Well, I play soccer, but I’m not sure I’d say I enjoy it.”

  “So why do you do it then?” asks Missy. I still can’t get used to the fact that this angel-faced girl can be so blunt.

  “I — I … well, I guess because my dad expects me to,” Tom says.

  “And you always do what your parents tell you to do?” Callie asks, dripping scorn. This doesn’t surprise me. From the conversations I’ve had with Callie so far, I get the impression she’s the kind of girl who’d do the exact opposite of what her parents tell her to do.

  I want to tell her to leave Tom alone. I don’t know why I feel so protective of him. Maybe I just feel like everyone’s giving him an unnecessarily hard time on his first day — sort of like they did to me. I mean, who died and made them shrinks?

  “No,” Tom says, looking even more miserable. “I don’t. But soccer is different.”

  “How is soccer different?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  “Because it’s something I do with my dad,” Tom says. “Because ever since I can remember, sports are the only thing my dad talks to me about. Playing soccer, watching football and baseball, and going to games are what we do together.”

  “But what do you enjoy doing, Tom?” Dr. Pardy asks, not giving up.

  “I don’t know,” Tom mumbles. “I guess …”

  It’s almost as if you can see this internal struggle going on inside Tom’s head — like there’s a little angel on one side saying, “Do it! Be honest!” and there’s a little devil on the other side saying, “No! Don’t tell them! They’ll laugh!” His knee starts tapping up and down furiously.

  “I … like going into the city. To art museums and concerts and stuff like that. I do that kind of thing with my mom and sometimes my sister. Oh, and I like to read. I read a lot.”

  “What kind of books do you like?” I ask him.

  “Pretty much anything,” he says. “Fiction, nonfiction, magazines, newspapers. Comics. Cereal boxes. If it’s got words, I’ll read it.”

  “Well, I’d like to encourage you to put your own words on paper, Tom,” says Dr. Pardy. “Journaling is a very important piece of the therapeutic process here at Golden Slopes.”

  I wonder if she really believes that journaling will help or if she’s just encouraging us to write because someday she’s going to use our journals to write a book — My Life Among the Crazy People. Maybe I should start writing in code. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. But you know what they say: Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.

  After the “journaling is therapy” speech, it’s on to our family mealtimes. It’s weird; all of us have some issue with meals. I guess that should come as no surprise seeing as we’re all in this joint for eating problems. Missy says she hates being at the same table as her stepfather, because he’s a creep who’s always picking on her and her younger brother, Chris, so she just eats as fast as she can so she can get away. Bethany’s mom always says stuff like, “Are you sure you want seconds of mashed potatoes? They’ve got 36.8 grams of carbs per serving!” Apparently she keeps a laptop in the kitchen so she can look up the calorie and carb content of everything she or any of her kids put in their mouths. No wonder the girl is a complete basket case about food.

  Dr. Pardy lets whoever wants to talk go first. She somehow manages to maintain some kind of eye contact with whomever is speaking, while writing stuff down on the yellow pad on her clipboard. That yellow pad is part of the reason I don’t like to speak up. I’m afraid she’s going to write down that I’m a complete screwup and I’ll end up stuck in this place for the rest of my natural life.

  The problem is, once all the voluntary “sharing” is over with, Dr. Pardy moves on to those of us for whom talking to the group about our personal secrets is a form of purgatory. Take Tracey, for example. She’s the oldest person in the room, including Dr. Pardy, and she looks like the oldest person in the universe. Her skin is all dried out and leathery, and her arms are covered in hair, while the hair on her head is thin, stringy, and dull. Like Helen, she always wears sweats and long sleeves, even though it’s like ninety degrees and humid out, and the air-conditioning doesn’t work so well so it’s pretty warm inside, too. She keeps to herself most of the time — I’ve only ever seen her at group or at mealtimes.

  “Tracey, how are mealtimes for you when you’re at home?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  Tracey seems to retreat into her sweatshirt like a turtle into its shell. I haven’t paid a whole lot of attention to her before because she’s so much older than the rest of us, but I suddenly wonder what would make a grown-up stop eating. In my experience, it’s usually the grown-ups who are telling us younger folks what and when to eat.

  “Empty,” Tracey says. It’s hard to hear her because she speaks in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

  “What do you mean by ‘empty’?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  “I don’t know,” Tracey whispers, looking more turtlelike by the minute.

  “Sure you do,” Callie says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have said it. So spit it out.”

  One thing you can say about Callie, she doesn’t beat about the bush. She just comes out and says stuff the rest of us might think but wouldn’t dare say. There are times I hate that about her, like in that first group session. But then I think about what it would feel like to have guts like her, and wonder if I hang around her long enough whether some of it will rub off on me.

  “Well, after my husband left me …” Tracey says. She stops and suddenly there are tears moistening her dry cheeks.

  It’s so weird to see her being emotional. She’s just been this quiet, older peripheral being, almost a nonpresence. I’m struck by the sudden realization that underneath the baggy sweats and the old crone exterior Tracey’s a hurting person, just like the rest of us.

  “I didn’t have any appetite after he left. He left me for his younger … and … thinner coworker. I kept thinking that if I’d been smarter, if I’d been prettier, if I’d only been younger and thinner, if I’d been a better wife, a better — well, a better everything, then he wouldn’t have fallen for her and walked out on me.”

  Dr. Pardy stands up and walks over to Tracey with a box of tissues. They must have to buy tissues by the truckload in this place. Not that I’ve needed them. I’m like the Sahara of the psycho scene.

  “My whole life until now I’ve been something to someone,” Tracey sobs. “I met Paul in college and we got married as soon as we graduated. I got pregnant with Mitchell right away, and then had James eighteen months later. I’ve never worked other than summer jobs and babysitting. Now the boys are grown up and don’t need me, and my ex-husband doesn’t need me either. I’m … I’m just … worthless.”

  I feel so sorry and sad for Tracey. How awful her life must be! It makes me never want to get married, just in case my husband ditches me. Like my dad ditched Clarissa. I don’t ever want to feel the kind of pain Tracey feels.

  “You’re not worthless, Tracey,” Bethany says, patting Tracey’s skinny, sweatpant-covered knee. “You’ve got so much to offer.”

  “Like what?!” Tracey shouts. “I’ve got absolutely nothing to offer! If I died tomorrow, everyone would just be better off!”

  I jump, because her rage is so sudden, and loud, her self-loathing so vehement and strong I can almost feel it storm over me. Is this invisible Tracey, who never speaks above a whisper?

  But then she shrinks back into her normal, turtle self.

  “If I’m not Paul’s wi
fe and Mitchell and James’s mother, then what am I?” she asks in a tremulous whisper. “I’m nothing. That’s what I am — nothing.”

  The room is quiet except for the sound of Tracey weeping. Even Missy, who always seems to have something to say, is silent. What can anyone say in the presence of that much grief?

  “Tracey, if you could choose to be something, what would it be?” asks Dr. Pardy.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been anything but a wife and a mother.”

  “What about when you were a little girl?” Dr. Pardy says. “Was there something you wanted to be when you were growing up?”

  Tracey laughs bitterly through her tears. “I wanted to get married and have kids.”

  Callie snorts, like she can’t imagine anyone wanting so little out of life. Dr. Pardy gives her a quieting look.

  I guess it must have been different when Tracey was a girl. It’s not like I don’t want to get married and have kids — well, okay, the idea of getting married is kind of scary, I’ll admit, but I still want to do it someday. It’s just there’s so much else I want to do besides. Like I want to backpack around Europe instead of staying in luxury hotels with my parents and I want to drive across the United States from Key West to Seattle in a convertible and I want to go to college and star in a movie and have a boyfriend who really likes me, likes me for me, unlike Matt Lewis. And I want never to be stuck in a place like this ever again.

  “What about hobbies? Have you ever had any hobbies?” Dr. Pardy persists. I have to give her credit — I don’t know how she remains so patient when faced with someone who is so clueless about herself.

  Tracey twists a tissue until it looks like a small, about-to-disintegrate sausage in her trembling fingers.

  “I don’t know … I …” she sniffs. “I guess I used to like to make clothes. I used to make all my own clothes when I was growing up and in college — up till after James was born. I didn’t have time to sew after that, and by the time I did, Paul was doing so well at work that I just bought everything we needed instead of making it.”