Purge Read online

  “How did it make you feel to make your own clothes?” Dr. Pardy asks.

  “Good — like I’d accomplished something,” Tracey says.

  “It might seem like we’ve gotten off track here, but we haven’t,” Dr. Pardy says. “Eating disorders often result from a feeling of worthlessness or, as Tracey describes it, ‘emptiness,’ and in order to combat that feeling, it’s important to work out who we are and what we want out of life.”

  She looks around the room from over her geek-chic glasses, which just make her look like Teacher Barbie. Today she’s wearing beige linen capris and a tailored safari jacket and she looks like she just stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

  “We’ve got to wrap this up now, but for homework I want all of you to make a list of ten words you would use to describe yourself and ten words you think your friends or family would use to describe you. We’ll discuss them tomorrow.”

  She turns to Tracey, who is back in silent-turtle mode. “Thank you for sharing with us, Tracey. It was very brave.”

  As everyone else gets up to leave, I ask Tom, “So what did you think?” He’s sitting glued to the chair, looking shell-shocked by it all.

  “I feel so sorry for her,” he murmurs back. “Her husband must be a world-class bastard.”

  I’m taken aback by his vehemence. I’d have thought he’d have a guy perspective on it — you know, like Good for him trading in boring old Tracey for a younger, prettier model. But it’s not like that. His fists are clenched like he wants to punch someone.

  “Janie, are you coming? It’s Let the Animals Out to Smoke time,” Callie says.

  We’re only allowed outside for two half-hour breaks morning and afternoon, which drives smokers like Callie nuts. I miss the fresh air, although I don’t get to have much of it when I’m out in the courtyard hanging with the smokers. But since Callie and Missy are the closest I have to friends in this place, it’s worth inhaling a little bit of passive smoke.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her. She gives me a really obvious wink, and she and Missy leave, whispering and giggling about me and my nonexistent romance with Tom.

  “My dad always says it takes two people to make a marriage and two people to break it,” I tell him, when we’re alone. “He should know — his first one broke up.”

  “Sometimes it’s more one person’s fault than the other,” Tom says, his face stony.

  I’m totally getting the impression that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

  “Like, how?”

  I can almost hear his brain working, wondering if he trusts me enough to tell me whatever it is that’s making him so mad. I find myself really hoping that he does. I might not be attracted to Tom, but I feel a connection to him somehow. Maybe it’s because we both have loud, obnoxious dads.

  “My dad cheats,” Tom mutters, staring at a spot on the puke-green linoleum floor as if it were the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “I saw him once with one of his girlfriends.”

  I take a deep breath in, trying to think of something I can say, but my mind’s a total blank.

  “I was out with my friends — we were supposed to see a movie but the one we wanted to see was sold out, so we took the bus downtown to go hang at the Javanet Café.”

  Tom’s skinny knee starts moving up and down again, a mile a minute. I want to put my hand on it so it’ll stop, but I get the impression he needs to move it in order to talk.

  “We were passing by this little Italian restaurant, and I was checking my reflection in the window to see how I looked because Jo — well, a friend of mine — was supposed to be hanging down at the Javanet, and I saw my dad holding hands with this blond chick and looking all lovey-dovey.”

  I tried to imagine what I would do under those circumstances. Would I confront Dad? Would I tell Mom?

  “Did you tell your dad you saw him?” I asked.

  Tom laughs, but it’s a sour sound, not a funny one.

  “No. I was too much of a coward to confront him. And now every time I look at my mom, I think, ‘You poor sucker. He’s going to dump you.’ Because the weird thing is, this chick looks like a dead ringer for Mom from her wedding photos.”

  “That is weird,” I agree. “You’d think he’d at least go for something different if he’s going to mess around on your mom. You know, variety is the spice of life and all that.”

  “But the worst thing is that, try as I might, I can’t ever remember seeing my dad look at my mom the way he was looking at this younger mom clone. Okay, maybe in pictures from when they were first married, but never in real life. So I’m wondering if my parents were ever really happy together … or if their whole marriage has just been one big lie.”

  I wish I knew what to say to Tom, but I don’t. This is too big for me. And if it’s too big for me, a total stranger, it must be an unbearable burden for Tom to be toting around — this secret about his dad that he knows will devastate his mom, and having to look at them both every day.

  “C’mon, let’s go out and inhale some fresh air laced with passive smoke,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of to take his mind off it.

  “Thanks, but I think I’m just going to lie down for a while.”

  I want to argue with him, to tell him that he should be around people instead of being miserable by himself — but I don’t. I want to hug him — but I don’t. I want to tell him that I can’t imagine how he’s able to get up in the morning carrying a monkey that size on his back — but I don’t. I don’t do anything except say, “Okay, see you later.” Then I go outside and think about all the things I could have done or said to try to make him feel better, but didn’t. And I hate myself even more.

  July 21st, evening

  It’s time to do my homework for Dr. Pardy. It’s easy to come up with ten words that describe how I see me:

  Fat.

  Sad.

  Bulimic.

  Screwed up.

  Defective.

  Smart.

  Ugly.

  Empty.

  Confused.

  Scared.

  It’s a lot harder to come up with ten words that describe how my friends and my family see me. I guess I’ll come up with five adjectives for each. First for the bad news — in other words, my family. From Mom and Dad I’d say: difficult, moody, and dramatic. Perfect Jenny and Clarissa would contribute spoiled and selfish to the list.

  My friends, on the other hand, would probably be more positive about what I have to offer the world. Take Kelsey, for instance. She’s my best friend, or at least she was. I have to let myself think she still is, because the alternative is too awful to think about. It’ll be hard enough to face going back to school in September — that’s if they let me out of here by then — but the thought of doing it without Kelsey’s friendship — argh. Well, I’ll try to channel some good Hal Ryman positivity here and assume she is still my best friend, in which case I think her words would be funny and loyal. Nancy, my drama friend, on the other hand, would say I’m shy and insecure. I think that’s because she’s seen a side of me that no one else has, not even Kelsey. And Danny … well, Danny would probably say I’m smart and pretty, but he’s not exactly objective because we’ve been friends since our first day of nursery school. Seriously, the guy asked me to marry him, back when we were three. I bet he wouldn’t do it now, though, after what happened. For some reason that fills me with sadness so heavy I feel smothered by the weight of it.

  Now that I look at these words, it strikes me how differently I think my friends see me than how I think my family sees me. I guess that’s why they say “You can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends.” If my parents could make a choice between me and a different daughter, would they still pick me? Somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they’ve never said they love me, or anything like that. They have. I’m just not sure that I’d pick me, if I had the choice.

  Another thing I notice from looking at these words is how differently I see
myself from the way everyone else sees me. I’m afraid of how my friends see me, even though they seem to view me better than I do myself, because I’m scared to death that one day they’ll wake up and realize that I’m none of those things, that I’m not as nice a person as they think I am, that they’ve been wrong about me all along. Then they’ll dump me.

  On the other hand, I’m scared to death that I really AM all the bad things that my parents and Perfect Jenny think I am. Then I couldn’t blame anyone for dumping me — even my own parents.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about Tom since this afternoon. I wonder how he manages to get out of bed every morning knowing he has to carry the weight of his father’s affair around — especially since his mom doesn’t know. I mean, if she knew and his parents were fighting about it all the time and throwing things, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least everyone would know where they stood, instead of having to go around playing Happy Families when they know it’s all a lie. It must be so hard for Tom to have to keep that secret growing inside of him like an undiagnosed tumor. The fact that he was willing to share that secret with me when he hasn’t told anyone else, when he barely even knows me, makes me feel incredibly special, like he’s given me a gift of trust. I feel kind of bad, though — because I’m not sure I’ll be able to give it back.

  I’ve also been thinking about Mom and Dad and Clarissa and Perfect Jenny. Mom used to work with Dad — she was a vice president at Bayview Partners and about a year ago Perfect Jenny told me that they were having an affair and that’s the reason Dad and Clarissa got divorced. It freaked me out at the time, because I never realized that Mom was the “Other Woman.” I always thought that Dad and Clarissa were already divorced when my parents started dating. I felt ashamed, like it was somehow my fault, and I hated Jenny for making me feel that way. It also made me wonder if that’s why Perfect Jenny has always lorded her grades and her competence in everything over me. I resolved to try not to get mad at her when she’s her usual condescending self. That lasted all of about … I don’t know, three minutes.

  After that conversation with Tom, I can’t stop thinking about how it must have felt for Jenny when her parents were getting divorced. Like did she ever go to the mall with her friends and run into Dad buying sexy underwear with Mom in Victoria’s Secret? (A completely revolting thought, I know, but if she was his “Other Woman,” then it’s not out of the question, is it?) Or did Jenny just come home from school one day and have Clarissa tell her that Dad was leaving — BANG! SURPRISE! — that he was divorcing them to move in with Mom?

  You would think Perfect Jenny would hate Mom because of that, but they get along better with each other than either of them does with me. It’s bad enough that Dad prefers Jenny, but at least she’s his own flesh and blood. Mom’s got no excuse — unless it’s that I’m so awful that even the daughter of someone she loathes as much as she does Clarissa is preferable. Not a pleasant thought.

  I wonder if the reason why Dad was so determined to go all out and give Perfect Jenny the Perfect Wedding was to make it up to her for having that affair with Mom and leaving Clarissa. Ha! Well, thanks to me, the Perfect Wedding wasn’t quite so perfect, was it?

  I wonder if they’ll ever forgive me.

  We’re not allowed to have cell phones, computers, or iPods in this joint, which seriously sucks. Haven’t these guys heard of “Friends and Family”? Do they think we’re living in the Stone Age?

  Anyway, to talk to anyone we have to line up in the hallway to use the very public pay phone. Forget about talking privately to your boyfriend — if you’re lucky enough to have one, which I’m not. I mean, at one point I believed that I did, but I found out — pretty brutally, I might add — at Perfect Jenny’s wedding that the guy I thought was my boyfriend didn’t seem to share the opinion. Not in the slightest.

  I’ve decided that since I’ve been in here a few days already I need to call Kelsey. This is the longest time I haven’t spoken, e-mailed, or IM’d her in forever. I think I’m going through withdrawal, especially since the last time we spoke … well, let’s just say we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. So I grab the roll of quarters my parents left me when they visited and head for the pay phone. There’s always a line, but at least this morning it’s not too bad; I end up being third in line after Helen, who is wearing what looks like four sweatshirts and still manages to look like a stick insect. Her eyes are sunken and hollow looking and it’s like she’s on a different planet, staring ahead dazed and unfocused. Knowing her, she’s probably counting up the calories she had to eat yesterday and is thinking about how she can avoid consuming any today. Her thin legs move up and down in her baggy sweats, which after three days in this place I now know to be an attempt to burn off calories — like she really needs to burn off any more.

  “Hey, Helen,” I say. “What’s up?”

  Psych ward etiquette requires that you never ask “How are you?” because it’s such a stupid question. I mean, if we were okay, we wouldn’t be in here, would we?

  I can’t tell if she doesn’t hear me or if she’s just being rude and ignoring me, because at first she doesn’t answer — in fact, she doesn’t even look in my direction, just keeps her skinny legs pumping. But then I hear her whisper 498, 499, 500, and I realize she’s been counting, because after she hits 500, her legs stop moving and she turns to face me.

  “Nothing. What’s ever up in this fucking hellhole?”

  I’m a little taken aback. It’s the first time I’ve heard Helen curse. It’s the first time I’ve even heard Helen sound angry. Usually, it’s like she’s got the same supernatural control over her emotions that she has over her calorie intake. I’m still trying to think of a reply when the person who’s on the phone hangs up and says “all yours” to Helen.

  Helen digs a bunch of quarters out of the pocket of her sweats (I bet her weight just halved) and feeds them into the phone.

  I’m trying not to listen, but when someone is on the phone right next to you, it’s kind of hard not to.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me …. So when are you going to get me out of here?” she says.

  I can’t hear her dad’s response, but I assume it’s something she doesn’t want to hear, because she looks even less happy than she did before she made the call.

  “But it’s not like they’re actually doing anything for me in here and … Dad, I can’t take being here anymore. I’ve been stuck in this dump for six weeks already and it sucks. Please get me out. I’m begging you …”

  Six weeks? Please tell me I won’t be in here for that long. I’ll die.

  Helen sounds like she’s about to cry.

  “Well, if you’re not going to get me out of here, are you at least going to come visit? … But you haven’t been here in weeks — neither has Mom …. Aren’t I more important to you than some stupid business trip?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, right …. You just don’t love me.” Then she’s screaming down the phone, “You’ve never loved me! You—”

  All of a sudden she drops to the floor. Her eyes roll back in her head and her twiglike arms and legs twitch like a bug that’s been sprayed with Raid. Her father’s voice is still buzzing from the handset. Everything seems like it’s in slow motion before my mind registers what’s happening and I open my mouth and start to scream for help, for the nurses, for anyone.

  Joe is the first nurse to hit the scene.

  “CODE RED! Get the crash cart!” he shouts, falling to his knees beside Helen and feeling for a pulse in her neck.

  He starts pumping on Helen’s chest with his beefy arms, so hard I’m worried he’s going to break her.

  All hell is breaking loose. Nurses come running from every which way. Nurse Kay sees me standing there.

  “Janie, go to your room and shut the door!”

  “But please, I need to make sure Helen’s okay and …”

  “NOW, Janie!” Nurse Kay shouts. “Get to your room, NOW!”

  And I thought
Nurse Kay was one of the good guys. I run down the hall to my room and slam the door behind me. Then I curl up on my bed, clutching my decrepit old teddy bear, Mr. Cuddles, scared shitless and wondering if Helen is going to be okay. I mean, she can be a complete bitch and she pisses me off when she hides and we have to wait to eat meals, but I don’t want her to die or anything.

  It feels like I’m stuck in my room forever. I can hear stuff going on down the hall, but not well enough to know what’s happening with Helen. When I first got here, I was glad that I didn’t have a roommate, in case she was a bitch or snored or something. But I sure as hell wish I had one now, because at least then I’d have someone to talk to about what’s going on.

  Instead all I can think about is the fridge at home, and what I would be eating from it right now if I weren’t confined to my room inside this prison. I’d start with the freezer, the Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream. I’d check to see if there was any chocolate syrup in the fridge, and if so, I’d pour it straight into the tub of Ben & Jerry’s and maybe even cover it with Reddi-wip. Then I’d see if there were any brownies or chocolate-chip cookies, or maybe some of that Belgian chocolate that Mom buys from Whole Foods.

  My imagination of what I would eat is so vivid that after I’ve worked my way through my mind’s freezer and refrigerator, I feel like I have to purge, even though I haven’t really eaten anything. My stomach feels bloated and distended, like it does after I binge, and the critical voice in my head starts berating me: You fat pig! You’re disgusting. I can see the rolls of fat hanging over your waistband and poking through the thighs of your jeans. You make me sick. You’ve just consumed like 10,000 calories in just twenty minutes and they’re making a beeline for your big fat butt. I’m surprised you can even sit on that bed without breaking it you’re so grossly obese. … On and on and on it goes, until I feel like I have to purge or I’ll die. I look around the room to see what I can throw up into without the nurses finding out. Think! You fat slob! Think!