Purge Read online

  The raisin is in my mouth. As I trace the wrinkles with my tongue, I sneak a glance at the Starvers. The grimaces on their faces almost make me crack up and give myself away — they’re like the gargoyles on Notre Dame. Shutting my eyes again, I roll the raisin around with my tongue. It’s weird — I must have eaten thousands of mini snack boxes of raisins in the course of my life, but I’ve never been as aware of what a raisin feels like in my mouth as I am right at this very minute.

  “Now I want you to bite into your raisin,” Tina says.

  My teeth pierce the raisin’s outer skin and I experience an explosion of sweetness in my mouth — this rush of raisiny flavor that is so intense it’s like I never tasted a raisin before. It makes me wonder how I ever managed to throw a handful of the suckers into my mouth at the same time. What a waste of amazing flavor! From now on, I’m going to eat my raisins one at a time.

  “Okay, everyone, you can open your eyes now, and we’ll talk about how that experience was for you.”

  “Can I spit this out?” Tinka whines. “I really don’t want to finish it.”

  “Can I finish my box of raisins?” Missy asks. “In fact, I’ll have Princess Skinnybutt’s, too, since she can’t even manage to eat ONE FREAKING RAISIN without getting ants in her anorexic pants.”

  “No, you cannot spit it out, Tinka. Missy, you need to focus on your own emotions about this, not on Tinka’s,” Tina says.

  “I am,” Missy grumbles. “My emotions are telling me that I want to finish her box of raisins.”

  “Royce, how was it for you?”

  Tina catches him while he’s busy emptying the rest of the box of raisins into his mouth, all at once.

  “Uh … it was okay. It was like … eating a raisin.”

  I guess it wasn’t good for him, too. Clearly, one girl’s explosion of intense raisiny pleasure is another guy’s ho-hum raisin-consumption experience.

  “It made me want to throw up,” Bethany says. She’s practically gagging.

  “Ooh, you don’t want to go down that road, Niblet,” warns Callie.

  “Did it make you uncomfortable to have to focus on the act of eating?” Tina asks.

  “I felt freaky,” says Tinka. “All I could think about was the calories.”

  “Let’s look at that for a minute,” Tina says. “There are forty-five calories in this box of raisins, and let’s say there are about twenty-five raisins in the box. So one raisin — the one raisin I’ve just asked you to eat, is just under two calories.”

  “Yeah, but if you’re only allowing yourself like twenty calories a day like Niblet and the rest of the Twiglets, that’s like ten percent of your recommended daily allowance,” says Missy. “So it’s no wonder the Starvers are freaking out.”

  “It made me realize how amazing raisins taste,” I say, before I remember my pledge to keep my mouth shut.

  Still, it works out. I figure I’ll get a few points in the sanity column because Tina smiles and says, “Yes, Janie. One of the purposes of this exercise is to get us to really focus on our food, instead of trying to distract ourselves from the fact that we’re eating.”

  She looks at those of us on the Barfer side of the room.

  “When you are bingeing, how aware are you of what you’re eating?”

  Missy laughs. “I don’t care what I’m eating as long as it’s sweet. It’s like I’m in this eating frenzy when I binge — all I care about is eating. I can eat an entire thing of that ready-to-bake cookie dough … like in less than sixty seconds, as long as I have a glass of milk to wash it down.”

  By the horrified looks on their faces, I can tell the Starvers have already worked out the caloric content of a log of cookie dough and a cup of milk.

  “Yeah, it’s not till afterward that I think about what I’ve eaten — and then all I can think about is how quickly I can get to a bathroom and get it out,” Callie adds.

  “Even people who don’t have eating disorders are guilty of eating in a non-mindful way,” says Tina. “I find that my non-ED clients who want to lose weight have been able to do so by practicing mindful eating, rather than eating in the car or while reading or watching TV.”

  I’m wondering how this plays out for the Starvers. I mean, they want to lose more weight even if they don’t need to, but clearly it’s hell for them to have to concentrate on their food.

  “I’d like you all to practice mindful eating at all of your meals for the next two days. Write about your feelings in your journals and we can discuss things further next time.”

  As we’re walking out of the dayroom, I ask Tom about his raisin-eating experience.

  “Was it good for you, too?”

  He laughs.

  “Obviously it wasn’t as good for me as it was for you. I thought you were going to start doing porn movie moans in the middle of group.” He closes his eyes: “Yes, baby, oh YES, give me your fat, juicy, luscious … raisins!”

  “Voulez-vous manger avec moi, ce soir?” I sing. “Voulez-vous manger avec moi ….”

  “You guys are sick,” says Bethany as she walks by — but she’s smiling, something I haven’t seen her do the entire time I’ve been here.

  This is progress, I suppose.

  July 27th

  Still no word about Helen. I tried asking Nurse Joe this time, but he gave me the same line about “preserving patient confidentiality.” Why can’t they just tell me if she’s doing better, to put me out of my misery?

  Meanwhile, I swear this place is turning more Zen by the day. First we had the mindful raisin-eating thing yesterday morning, then in the afternoon we had yoga. “At Golden Slopes we are firm believers in exercise as part of the mind-body connection,” according to Ali, the yoga instructor. That’s only partly true, because if you’re a Starver, you aren’t allowed to do any exercise at all. In fact, if you’re a Starver, you’re practically ordered to be a couch potato. It would almost be worth becoming a Starver in order to get a permanent pass to miss gym. The only drawback would be the part about not being able to eat anything.

  Ali, the yoga instructor, is like a human pretzel. I don’t know how she manages to bend herself into those positions and still be able to take deep breaths while she’s doing it. I could barely breathe at all, much less take deep, cleansing breaths to the count of four.

  At the end she had us lying on the floor on mats with our eyes closed to do this meditation exercise where we were supposed to empty our brain of all thoughts.

  “That won’t be hard for some people,” Callie whispered, nodding meaningfully in Royce’s direction.

  I started cracking up, which didn’t do a whole lot for my “mindfulness.” I found it really hard to empty my brain, which I suppose is good in some ways because it means I have a lot in it, but it also means that I’m pretty much a failure at yoga. Every time I tried to think emptiness, stuff would just pop into my head.

  “Relax and feel your body melt into the mat,” Ali said in this mesmerizing voice.

  Ha! That’s part of my problem. I already let my body melt into the Matt.

  It’s really weird how your brain will take you from one thought to the next on this strange, uncharted road, but no matter where you start out or which path you decided to take you always seem to end up back at the one thing you really don’t want to think about. Like I started off with a chuckle remembering what Callie said about Royce and that led to thinking about drama people like me versus jocks like him and that led me to when I played the lead in Anne Frank a week before the wedding and how I got a standing ovation. Then I found myself thinking about the cast party and how I was talking to Danny and Kelsey when in walks Matt Lewis, on whom I’ve had the biggest crush ever since back in middle school when his parents invited my family to their country club for drinks and tennis. (His dad is one of my dad’s hedge fund clients.) For once, Stage Janie merged with Real Janie and I was actually able to flirt with him instead of just standing there blushing and barely able to stammer out a sentence. We ended up
making out in one of the bedrooms of Kenny Dillard’s house, and it felt amazing to be going at it with the guy I’d dreamed about for so long. And then I started remembering how it felt to be sitting at the head table at Perfect Jenny’s wedding next to Brad’s deathly boring cousin from Ohio and seeing … oh, G-d, I don’t want to go there.

  So I started from the beginning, focusing on my breath and trying to imagine myself in a safe, warm place. The stage, with the warmth of the spotlights shining down on me, hiding the audience from sight. The stage, where I can be anyone I want to be. The stage, where I felt so happy the night of the Anne Frank performance and … no, can’t go there, either.

  I took another deep cleansing breath and tried again. Okay, a beach. A beach, under a sapphire sky, the sun warming my skin. But being on a beach means I’m in a bathing suit. Is my stomach hanging out? Is everyone thinking how fat and ugly I look?

  You get the picture. There are times when I wish more than anything that I could turn off my brain, turn off that constantly critical voice inside, turn off the memories of that night. But instead, I guess I just have to add yoga and meditation to the list of things I suck at.

  “Hey, Janie, get your ass into the dayroom. You’ve got visitors,” Callie shouts from outside my door.

  Visitors? I thought Mom and Dad said they weren’t coming tonight because Dad has a business meeting and Harry has a baseball game or something. Actually I think Mom made up the baseball game because she can’t hack the thought of visiting me by herself without Dad. Anyway, I don’t care — it’s a relief not to have to put up with her crying. I’m sick of having to be the comforter instead of the comforted.

  But I can’t imagine who might be waiting for me in the dayroom. I hope it’s Kelsey and Mrs. Critelli, I think as I hurry down the hallway.

  No such luck. My heart sinks as I walk into the dayroom and see none other than Perfect Jenny, sitting stiffly on the couch next to a somewhat more relaxed Brad. Not that being more relaxed than Jenny is much of an accomplishment — even an ice sculpture would look warm and relaxed next to her.

  Brad spots me first and I see him giving Jenny’s hand a squeeze. I’m not sure if it’s to give her support and encouragement or to warn her not to kill me. Judging by the expression on her face when she sees me walking toward her, it’s probably the latter.

  “Hey, Janie,” Brad says with what I assume is forced cheer. “How’s my favorite sister-in-law doing?”

  “It’s okay, Brad. You don’t need to pretend I’m your favorite sister-in-law, because I’m your only sister-in-law. And if you really want to know how I’m doing, well, I’m doing completement merde, thank you very much.”

  Jenny rolls her eyes.

  “I told you she would be like this,” she says to Brad, as if I’m not there. Then she turns her gaze back to me. “Brad was just trying to be nice. You know, to be civil and respectful. Not that you deserve it, after the way you behaved. You certainly didn’t show us any respect.”

  Ouch. It’s not like I expected anything different, but still … it hurts.

  Brad puts a hand on Jenny’s shoulder and gives her a warning glance.

  “Now, girls — let’s try to keep things calm.”

  One of the things I’ve always admired about Brad is his relentless optimism, but under the current circumstances I think it qualifies him as delusional. Still, I figure I owe it to him to try to break the ice with his wife. Besides, if I were Jenny, I’d hate me, too. So I take a deep breath and launch in:

  “Look, Jenny … Brad … I really am sorry about what happened. I feel terrible about it. I know how much planning went into making the day …”

  I hesitate, trying to think of a word other than “perfect.”

  “To make it … special … and meaningful … and I really think it was, even if I did embarrass you all and everything … and …”

  Damn, this is hard. Jenny’s still sitting there like the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, her cold hostility ripping a hole in my hull. If only she’d just … I don’t know, show me some sign that she doesn’t completely hate me, or at least that even if she does hate me that there’s some remote possibility she might not in the future — assuming I grovel long and hard enough, that is.

  “Well … I guess that what I’m trying to say is … that I hope you’ll be able to … you know … forgive me eventually and … well, I wish I could make it up to you in some way, but I know that I can’t.”

  “Now there’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Jenny says. “I’ll say you can’t.”

  I start to wonder how long I have to stay here listening to her being mad at me. Is there some point where I can just say, “Enough, already! I’ve apologized, let’s put it behind us and move on”? Or maybe this is part of the penance — having to put up with being berated for the next, like, twenty years of my life. Oh. Joy.

  “I mean, seriously, Janie. You knew how important my wedding was to me — because unlike Dad, I only plan on getting married once.”

  I guess I’m not the only one Jenny’s mad at.

  “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear that, sweetheart,” Brad says, smiling as he puts his arm around Jenny.

  Brad might not be the most handsome guy in the world — he’s got a kind face and is built a little like an overstuffed teddy bear — but he’s definitely got a certain je ne sais quoi as far as Jenny is concerned. She actually smiles back at him — I can’t help hoping that this little melting of the polar ice cap will extend in my direction. I feel seriously bad about ruining her wedding and all, but groveling is getting really old, really quickly.

  “Jenny, believe it or not, I didn’t set out to ruin your wedding — even though you made me wear a bridesmaid’s dress that resembled a lemon meringue pie. It’s just … just that, well, something happened that night that really upset me and … the rest, as they say, is history. And believe me, it’s history I’d much rather be forgotten.”

  I wish I could cry, because I think Jenny might actually believe me if she saw real tears. But the tears won’t come. I don’t know if it’s because of the meds they put me on here or what, but I just can’t seem to summon up the ability to cry. Maybe I’ve used up all my tears.

  What makes it worse is that Jenny does start to cry, and if I felt bad about things before, seeing her break down makes me feel a gazillion times more awful.

  “I just don’t understand it. What made you behave that way? Do you hate me that much?” she sobs.

  Brad reaches for one of the omnipresent boxes of tissues, and rubs Jenny’s back. I hope if I’m ever nuts enough to risk matrimony, I end up with a guy like him. With my luck, though, I’ll end up with someone like Tom’s dad. Or someone like Royce’s dad, who’ll constantly tell me how fat I am and how I’m doing everything wrong — as if I don’t have enough of that from the voice in my own head.

  I feel a lump in my throat like I want to cry but the tears just won’t come.

  “I — I don’t hate you, Jenny. Really I don’t. If anything I … envy you.”

  Jenny looks up, her tearstained face registering surprise.

  “Why on earth would you envy me?” she says. “You didn’t have to grow up shuttling back and forth between parents who couldn’t even speak a civil word to each other, or hearing your mother telling you what a lying, cheating bastard your dad is all the time. Believe me, my life growing up was nothing worth envying.”

  I guess it was really hard for Jenny when Dad and Clarissa split up. It makes me wonder how she can even look Mom in the eye, let alone be friends with her. Maybe Jenny’s just good at forgiveness. I sure as hell hope so.

  I figure I owe it to her to try to explain why I envy her so much.

  “It’s just — you’re so perfect. You’re smart and gorgeous and you went to Yale, just like Dad … for that alone he worships the ground you walk on. It’s like you’re this ideal daughter that I can never, ever live up to.”

  I’m taken aback when Brad burs
ts out laughing. In fact I’m kind of pissed at him. I mean, here I’ve bared my soul about my lifelong Perfect Jenny Complex and the guy is laughing. It’s no wonder I’m stuck here in Crazy Castle when I’ve got family like this to deal with.

  “Jenny? Perfect?” he says between guffaws. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Thank you, Brad. You just saved my bacon — because after that comment, Jenny’s pissed at you instead of me.

  “Why, exactly, is that so funny? Boy, the honeymoon really is over,” she sniffs.

  Brad takes her hand and kisses it.

  “Darling, even you have to admit you’re not perfect. Janie’s not perfect and you can bet that I’m not perfect, either — although I have to admit that unlike you two, I come pretty damn close,” he says with a grin.

  Brad hugs Jenny to him and kisses her temple.

  “I love you more because of your imperfections, honey. I love the fact that beneath that cool, competent façade there’s a woman who fishes all of the brownie out of the Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie and leaves the ice cream, and who acts like a two-year-old when she sees a spider.”

  “I don’t fish out all the brownie,” Jenny protests. “Just the clearly visible parts.”

  “I stand corrected,” Brad says, his eyes twinkling. “She just fishes out the clearly visible parts, even if some of them become visible as a result of vigorous exploration with a spoon.”

  You know, when Jenny first brought him to meet Dad, I was like, Jenny’s so beautiful; she could do better than Brad. But I’m beginning to see that it would be hard to find someone better. Now that I’ve gotten to know Brad better, I don’t even notice the fact that he doesn’t have six-pack abs and he’s beginning to bald. He’s so funny and kind. And he obviously really loves Jenny.

  I know they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover or a person by their looks. But it seems like ever since, I don’t know, fourth grade or so, looks are the only thing we get judged by. Why is that? Why is it that the things we are and the things we do don’t seem to count for much?