Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  I sit on the floor of Chubby’s lobby to calm down. Whoa. I’m loose. It’s invigorating and I laugh out loud. Suck my cunt. Suck it, baby. Suck it.

  I cannot believe that after all that’s happened, my mother still sees Chubby. I bet it was Chubby who told her to move out. Therapists always try to control your life. And everything was going so well, too. Right after the funeral, my parents spent time together. They went to the movies and out for dinner, and it seemed like their relationship was much better. But then my mother started going to Chubby, and they stopped talking to each other, and everything went back to the way it was.

  I wasn’t much help, either. Once, my father was sitting at the kitchen table with the Word Jumble, trying to unscramble YARBET. I studied the word. When a new word took shape, I casually suggested that it was pretty fucked up of Mommy to be working all the time, wasn’t it, I mean, she’s never around anymore, huh? He didn’t say anything. He scratched his possibilities on a napkin. TEBARY. ETABRY. BYRETA. YAREBT. Daddy? I goaded him. Daddy? Don’t you think? I guess, was all he said. I watched him work the Jumble. Suddenly, he filled in the new word. We both looked at it. BETRAY. Disgusted, he got up from the table.

  The next day, I happened to mention to my mother that Daddy and I had talked about her. I tried to make it seem as if we were worried about her, that she was working so hard, and wasn’t giving herself a break, but of course, she took it like we were plotting against her. “Why are you and Daddy talking about me?” she had asked sharply.

  “We know you’re having a hard time with…you know…with Shelly and your marriage…and everything.” My words felt glued in with peanut butter.

  “Jesus Christ!” she snapped. “I can’t stand when your father decides what is best for me. He is NOT a GODDAMN doctor.”

  I tried to fix things, but it only got worse. “Well, he’s concerned,” I said quickly. “He said he wished he could spend more time with you. That’s all he meant. He misses you, Mom.” As she stormed out of the house, I got a panicky feeling. And I knew I fucked up because two weeks later, she packed her bags and moved out.

  I sit in the corner of Chubby’s lobby and stare at the people. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. Maybe she moved out because she couldn’t stand the sight of me anymore. It’s not like she ever talked about me. How smart I am and how pretty, and how I could have gone to Harvard. She’s probably ashamed of me because I’m this overgrown oaf like Bad Ronald, a retarded child who can’t feed or dress herself. Maybe she’s sick and tired of taking care of me. It’s not like she has to take care of Shelly. Shelly was always so self-sufficient.

  I get up from the floor. It’s true, I realize. My own mother can’t stand me. And now, she misses the only daughter she was proud of. I suddenly break into a sprint and leave the building quickly, rounding the corner as fast as I can. Without even thinking, I head straight for St. Mary’s.

  “Uh, hi, Frannie,” Diana says as I walk into her office. Apparently, she’s still working for Dr. Hoffman, which seems strange because I expected things to be different. You’d think that after losing a patient, the hospital would reshuffle the staff, if only to give the impression they regretted their mistake. “Is everything all right?” she asks.

  I nod, touching my hair. I feel dirty. “I came to visit Cynthia. She’s here, isn’t she?”

  She nods. “I’m sure she’d love a visitor. Are you alone?”

  “Yeah.” A few months ago, my mother threatened to sue St. Mary’s. She called Abby and asked her to draft a letter, which was forwarded to Dr. Hoffman. Abby even went to her boss, who suggested that my mother hire a criminal attorney. There were conversations back and forth, but nothing came of it. I’m sure my mother knew she didn’t have a case, but that didn’t stop her from harassing the hospital. I think it was Chubby who talked her out of it because my mother stopped the process after only a few sessions.

  “You don’t need a pass, Frannie,” Diana tells me. “Just go up and ask Lucy if Cynthia wants company. Don’t be upset if she doesn’t.” She pauses. “She hasn’t been the same since we lost Shelly. She misses her.” She pauses again. “We all do.”

  Diana reaches out as I start to cry, but I leave her office quickly and get on the elevator. When I get to the third floor, my throat constricts. I get the same feeling I had when I walked into Shelly’s bedroom. “Hi, Lucy,” I say when she buzzes me in. “Is Cynthia here?”

  “Frannie! Hi, honey!” She gets up to hug me. I stiffen, just because I feel so dirty and sweaty, and I’m sure that I smell. “Cynthia would love to see you.” She pauses. “You look good. You okay?”

  I shrug. “Fine and dandy, like sugar candy.”

  A handful of girls are sitting on couches, watching TV and reading. I look for Keisha and Pia, but they’re both gone. I don’t see anyone else I recognize, but I haven’t been here in months. I’m sure the entire troop has changed. Except for Cynthia, I think, as she walks toward me. Her mother must have left her a bundle when she died.

  Cynthia is wearing a faded pink warm-up suit and dirty yellow socks. She’s filled out and her cheeks have softened, but her eyes are still cold and hard. She shuffles toward me. It’s good to see her, and I tell her so.

  Silently, she takes my hand and leads me to a couch in the day room. I glance at Lucy who nods. Tears slip from my eyes and I wipe them with my sleeve. As I settle in, I’m suddenly comfortable. It feels good to be here, like lying between clean sheets and listening to rain. I could spend the whole day here. Cynthia stares at the television. “Two weeks, Frannie.” She sucks on her forefinger. “Or maybe three. Then I’m getting out.” She stares at me. “You look kinda scrawny and your hair looks ugly.”

  I reach up self-consciously. “I didn’t have time to wash it this morning.”

  She loses herself in some movie about World War II. “Have you ever been to France, Frannie?” I shake my head. “Have you?” I ask.

  “No, frankly fry haven’t been to France, Frannie.” Despite my growing anxiety, I laugh. Cynthia puts her dirty socks in my lap. “So is your mother still fucking her boss?”

  “What?” I ask sharply.

  “I was just wondering if you ever went to France, Frannie.”

  “How do you know about my mother?”

  “How do you know about my mother?”

  “Please stop repeating me, Cynthia.”

  “Please stop repeating me, Cynthia.”

  I start to get up, but Cynthia pulls my hand. “Don’t leave, Frannie. Will you live with me when I get out? I have an apartment, you know. I’ll make us lots of baked potatoes.”

  I think about the time Shelly asked me to live with her. It seems like another life, someone else’s. “How do you know about my mother?” I ask again when I think Cynthia has calmed down.

  “Shelly told me.”

  “How did Shelly know?”

  “Your monster told her—that’s what Shelly called your mother.” Cynthia laughs. “She used to call every day.” She pauses. “Shelly told us about it in group. Everyone knows.” She smiles, trying to act sweet but instead she looks sinister. “We read each other’s journals to share our deepest thoughts and desires and hopes and goals. We don’t keep secrets. We have a club. Nothing that is said in here can leave these walls.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I feel clammy. We don’t keep secrets. The room shrinks. I search for something to count. I see flowers on the wall. I get to three. We don’t keep secrets. Why was my mother confiding in Shelly? It’s a mistake. Cynthia made it up.

  “Your monster said that you were in your own little world. That’s what she told her. And since Shelly was getting better, I guess, she told her all her secrets. I hate her.”

  “Who? My monster?”

  “No.” Her voice gets small. “I hate Shelly. She never did see my new place. And I don’t care what anyone says. She didn’t get any better.” Cynthia leans over and whispers to me. “Shelly said this place will make you crazy if you’re not careful.
But I’m careful, Frannie. I’m very, very careful. Shelly said that if it gets too much, you can always check out. Shelly said that and she meant it. I don’t have any friends anymore, Frannie.” Abruptly, Cynthia stands. “I have to go now, Frannie France,” she says, suddenly crying. “I can’t take this anymore.” And with a wave, she’s gone.

  I walk to the phone, my heart pounding. We don’t keep secrets. This can’t be true. I call my mother to scream at her, but remember she’s with Chubby, so I try Abby. “Uh, Abby please. It’s Harriet the Spy.”

  “Hold on, Frannie.” I feel as though I’ve made a vital connection. I make a mental note to ask Cynthia when she first heard about Johnny. How could my mother have done this? I thought I was the only one who knew. I told her not to tell Shelly. I’ve been YARBETTED!

  Suddenly I hear Abby. “What do you want?” Her voice is tight. She sounds mad. I look up. Four, I count four flowers. Four and then five. Five comes too slowly. “Frannie?”

  “Abby, something major has happened.”

  “Look, I don’t have time. And I don’t appreciate your behavior this afternoon.”

  “But this is important. I’m at St. Mary’s and I was talking to Cynthia, remember her? Well, she said my mother was calling Shelly every day. Abby, do you know what this means? My mother was confiding in her and then she died! Do you get it? Shelly couldn’t handle knowing about my mother’s affair! And my parents fought about it at dinner that night. That very night! It’s like all connected.” I hear Abby’s breathing. I expect her to say, “God, Frannie. What did she say?” but she doesn’t. She just sits there. “Abby?”

  “Frannie, I’ve tried to be a good friend, I really have, but I can’t do this anymore.”

  I get anxious. “What? You mean this afternoon? I’m sorry about that.” I try to sound sheepish and contrite, but I’m dying to get her opinion about my mother.

  “It’s not just me that you’ve offended, although that should be terrible enough. But also my business associates. I’ve worked hard at this firm. People finally respect me, even a boyfriend whom you offended.”

  “I was just joking. Besides, since when do you care about being professional? You’re fucking your so-called business associate.” I let out a fake laugh. She doesn’t say anything so I continue. “Anyway, this is important. This is about Shelly.”

  “Did you or didn’t you say something mean to Randy?”

  “I didn’t say anything, Abby. He said I was crazy!”

  “Randy would never say something like that. Were you rude to him?”

  “Why would I be rude to your boyfriend? So now you believe him over me?”

  “Were you rude to him, Frannie? Just answer the question.”

  “Fuck you, Abby. I am not your client. I am your friend. Your best friend.” Or I was. Envisioning the picture of Randy’s big head makes me want to ram the phone into the wall.

  “Frannie, you’ve got to get help. I know you can’t talk to your mother…”

  “What the fuck is wrong with my mother all of a sudden? My mother has been nothing but good to me. She lost a daughter, for Christ’s sake! Her daughter is dead! Don’t you get it?”

  Abby’s voice is firm. “Frannie, you aren’t making any sense.” Her voice softens. “I can’t watch you fall apart like this. You need help. I love you, Frannie, please?”

  “You fucking CUNT!! You stood me up twice last month to go out with Randy.”

  Her voice cracks and she starts to cry. “We’ve been friends our whole lives, Frannie. You’re like my sister. Please go talk to someone.”

  “YOU ARE NOT MY SISTER!” I scream. “My sister is dead and all you care about is your fucking boyfriend. Well fuck you, Abby. I was there for you. Every time some guy fucked you over. Who sat with you when you studied for the LSAT? Who was your friend when everyone hated you? Fuck you, FUCK YOU! I hate you and I wish you were dead, too.”

  I slam down the phone and hug myself because I’m shaking. Lucy rushes over. “Is everything okay?” I curl into a ball and she strokes my hair. “Are you all right?” I nod and let her help me to my feet and walk me over to a chair. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Just a dumb girl.” I hear my voice but it feels like it’s outside my head. It doesn’t matter. I’m not sure if I said that out loud. My eyes burn, but I don’t give in. I will not cry over Abby. Will not will not will not. A few warm tears slip out and I lick them with my tongue. They taste salty. Margarita salty. Where has everything gone? I wasn’t prepared. I should have taken the train. “I’m so tired, Lucy.” I try to lift myself.

  “Just relax a little, Frannie honey. It’s okay.”

  “Just two minutes.” I lie down across two chairs. I feel myself drifting. It occurs to me that I have to ask Cynthia something, but I can’t remember what it is. It’s something about Shelly and I know it’s important, but it seems far away, like my voice, like the salt. Eventually I feel my whole body go limp like I haven’t allowed myself in a long time, maybe months, maybe years, maybe ever, and across the empty chairs of a group therapy circle in my dead sister’s mental ward, I give in to sleep all over again.

  15

  You really let me down,” my mother says the next day. “Marilyn and I waited for you until four-thirty.”

  I nestle the phone in my neck and take out a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “I went to visit Abby and then to St. Mary’s.”

  “What the hell did you do there?” I tell her I watched television with Cynthia, saw Lucy and Diana. Remember them? “Vaguely,” she says. Then she launches into her speech about how worried she is, how I need to see someone, how Marilyn blah blah blah. I put the phone down while she talks. “FRANNIE?” she screams. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

  “I’m right here. Calm down. Once I get a job, everything will be all right.”

  “Did you call that Vicky Tayborn woman? She sounded like a good lead.”

  “I left a message,” I lie, “but she never called me back. Hey, Mom, can I ask you something?” I pause for emphasis. “When Shelly was in the hospital, right before, you know, did you tell her what was going on between you and Johnny?”

  I hear the pitch of her voice change slightly. “Of course not, why?”

  I put away the milk and hang up without saying goodbye. Then, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, I get into Shelly’s car and head for the Jewish Home where Grandpa Max is stashed away.

  If it weren’t for the smell, this place wouldn’t be so bad. It’s a combination of mothballs, urine, and sauerkraut. The building itself is nice; high ceilings, hardwood floors. I approach an old lady sitting at the front desk.

  “Maxwell Swartzberg is in Room 617,” she tells me in a mousy voice. “Sarah will show you around. Why don’t you wait in reception?”

  Sarah is very friendly. She’s in her forties with frosted hair. Her chewed-off cuticles make me like her immediately. When she tells me she’s wearing a wraparound skirt because nothing else fits, I’m in love.

  “Look at this, Frannie,” she says. She holds her ass. “This is kreplach and pastrami and Black Forest cake. I’m gonna take a picture of this”—she squeezes tighter—“and put it on my fridge with a sign that says This is what you get, Fatty, when you feed yourself like a skinny person. That’s what I’ll do. I’m gonna take a picture of my fat ass.” I laugh out loud, startled by the sound of my voice.

  She leads me through the gardens where there are weeping willows, rose bushes, and tulips. Benches line the walkway. I notice lights running along the ground. “What are those?” I ask, pointing down.

  “The lights come on at sunset. They run all through the garden to give the impression of a stream. It’s very beautiful.”

  “No doubt.” I marvel at who would think of something like that. I could think of something like that if I tried. I glance around. And some music would be nice. Maybe they need a consultant here.

  Sarah leads me through the gift shop, the synagogue, the physical therapy rooms, and th
en stops in front of the beauty parlor. She points at a sign over the door that says Dames and Gents. “Come in. There’s someone you should meet.”

  Standing in front of the mirror, sucking an unlit cigar, is a rotund man with no neck. He munches on the cigar, muttering to Sarah about how busy he is and could she please leave him alone?

  “Freddie,” she tells him. “There’s no one in here but you.”

  He speaks in a heavy Russian accent. He winks at me. “There vill be, Big Shot. You vait. They svarm like locusts.”

  “Frannie, this is Freddie. Freddie, this is Frannie. She’s Max’s granddaughter.”

  He waddles toward me. Without warning he hugs me, crushing my body against his big belly. Instead of stiffening, I surprise myself by relaxing. I nestle my nose in his shoulder. He smells of cigars and aftershave. As he releases me, he asks, “Who’s Max?” and holds his arms out so he can hug me again.

  Sarah smiles. “Freddie and Grandpa Max are roommates. They spend all their time together.”

  “And now that chazzer owes me $15 from poker. Chazzer.” He makes a spitting sound. “Such a pig, that man.”

  “Freddie!” Sarah says sharply. “Stop it now. I mean it.”

  “Ach, mind your own business, Big Shot.” He turns to the counter, takes a comb out of the canister, and pushes it through his two strands of oily hair. “I’m an old man, Sarah, living with a chazzer, a chazzer who plays cards and steals from me.” He snaps his scissors and leans in. “You know, for a good-lookin’ girl, you have vone hell of a mop. Maybe I should give you a trim?”

  I touch my knotted hair. All my curls are limp. “Okay,” I tell him. “Maybe later.”

  Freddie eyeballs me. “I’ve heard all about you. All day long, Max talks. Someone should shut him up. You’re Max’s favorite. Says he can’t stand the others, but Frannie, Frannie is the vone he likes.” Freddie sucks his cigar. “Ve’ve been vaiting for you, honey,” he says softly.

  “I’m here,” I tell him and reach out to squeeze his hand.