Room Empty

by Sarah Mussi

  It’s a convincing argument.

  ‘So this is what you do,’ Lee says. ‘You take the twenty-pound notes I give you into the corner shop and you buy chewing gum. Then you get nineteen pounds plus some change back, which is real money, and you give me the gum and the change. Next time, you change the next twenty-pound note at another corner shop. You get the idea.’

  This is what he means by ‘change up’.

  ‘This really works because the counterfeit money is sick,’ he says, showing us a sample £20 note.

  It’s very realistic.

  ‘The only thing you have to clock,’ says Lee, ‘is if they try to mark it with that black pen, because the fake money is on fake paper. But they’ve done a good job with the watermark and there’s the silver thread going right through the notes.’

  ‘My best advice is try to change it with old people,’ he continues. ‘They don’t see too good, and are always in a hurry to go and have a cup of tea. Like, they can’t be bovvered and they’re bigger suckers.’

  Right.

  ‘The worst kind of person to change it with is a tough-looking checkout bitch – she’ll check everything. That’s all you need to know.’ Lee clears his throat. ‘You really need to take advantage of this deal while they’re still printing fake money. Soon they’ll move operations to other areas – or the banks will start to notice. This is your one and only chance to make a quick bit of clean cash.’

  I don’t know how many people at the centre will give it a go. Iggy says he’s going for it and he’ll try to pay for his treatment with it. He says that would be another kind of big joke, because as far as he’s concerned the recovery programme we’re getting here is as fake as the notes.

  I don’t know what to think. I don’t know whether to go for the fake money or not.

  When I ask Fletcher if he will, he says, ‘You’re goddamn right I will.’

  27

  The saddest thing about addiction is when you compare reality to the way things could have been. I’m sure this has some kind of psychological name. Judith probably knows it.

  It’s very painful when you think of all the things you could have done. All the chances that have been swallowed into the pit. We were all born so beautiful, so loving. It’s even more painful when other people point this out. Repeatedly.

  Kerstin always makes sure she does.

  During her visits we sit in the conservatory in the visitors’ centre.

  The sun shines in through the glass. Kerstin is very hot and takes off her cardigan. I’m always cold. Even sun shining through conservatory windows has no effect on me.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ asks Kerstin.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘I’m so glad you got a place here,’ she says.

  I don’t know why she should be glad. But I don’t say anything.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ Kerstin asks again.

  ‘OK.’ I can’t distract myself with dreams of endless piles of fake money any longer.

  ‘How’s the food? Is it any good here?’

  Weird question.

  Maybe I could ask her about checking out the story in the newspaper. That faint ray of hope I’ve been nurturing breaks free.

  Maybe it wasn’t me.

  ‘You’re looking great,’ she says.

  Maybe that four-year-old was somebody else.

  I know I’m not looking great. But I smile at her. It was kind of her to come and see me.

  And the body was not my mother.

  ‘So I need to tell you all about this new boyfriend I have,’ says Kerstin.

  It could be true.

  The Alien pops up from behind her chair, pulls a stupid face and sticks his tongue out at her.

  ‘He’s really buff and fit and lush.’ Kerstin adjusts her skirt in a sexy way. ‘And I fancy the pants off him.’

  The Alien smiles a sly grin.

  I mean, it really could be true.

  ‘But there are a few things about him that worry me.’

  She doesn’t wait for me to ask what.

  ‘You see, the thing is, he’s kind of arrogant, and that makes him very attractive and fanciable and all that, but sometimes he doesn’t really listen to me.’

  I’m going to believe it wasn’t me. Just for now.

  The Alien moves out from behind Kerstin’s chair into the middle of the conservatory. It makes very lewd, hip-thrusting gestures at her with some of its rude Alien parts.

  I start to cheer up.

  ‘When you’re better,’ says Kerstin, ‘we can work on getting you a boyfriend too. I’m using this great dating site. There are loads of guys on it who all want to hook up for a bit of fun. They won’t mind if you’ve been in here.’ She gives me an I Am So Free Of Prejudice smile. ‘We don’t have to tell them you’re mental anyway.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘It’s so much fun. I can help you write your profile. And you’re so thin! All the guys are going to fancy you like crazy.’

  There are some biscuits (exactly four) on the table.

  ‘Have a biscuit,’ I say. Perhaps I can score a point while she’s talking about dating and how mental I am.

  ‘So, babes,’ says Kerstin, ‘this is what we’re going to do. In order to get you back into having lots of fun, which is exactly what you need, I read up all about anorexia. I even watched stuff on YouTube – see what a good friend I am! So the thing is, it’s all about self-hate – that’s why you do it.’

  I look at her. I’m trying really hard not to look at the Alien. If I look at him, he’ll make me giggle. Also, she’s about to pick up a biscuit.

  ‘So what you have to do is stop the slimming,’ says Kerstin. ‘It’s very simple.’

  I decide to humour her. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘So how do I do that?’

  ‘Right,’ says Kerstin in full-on helpful mode. ‘We’re going to write down a list of all the things that are great about you, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘Fantastic,’ says Kerstin. She puts her hand out, grabs a biscuit and stuffs it into her mouth.

  OH, YAY!

  Then she gets out a pen and pad and says, ‘I knew you wouldn’t think of this, so I’ve come prepared!’

  I watch her chewing and swallowing. It was a Viennese sandwich. They contain eighty-two calories per biscuit.

  ‘Let’s do it then,’ says Kerstin. ‘I’ll write it down – that’ll make it easier for you. So, I think you’re pretty.’

  She writes on the list: Pretty.

  ‘Now it’s your turn,’ says Kerstin.

  ‘And I’m thin,’ I say facetiously.

  ‘Totally,’ she says. ‘Being thin is great – boys totally love skinny girls.’

  She writes: Thin.

  The Alien mouths out, ‘Are all your friends stupid?’

  ‘And you have a nice personality,’ continues Kerstin.

  I flick him a look which says: What friends?

  Kerstin writes: Nice person.

  ‘Your turn,’ she says.

  ‘I have good friends like you,’ I say. This makes the Alien fall over and roll on the floor in spasms of laughter.

  She writes: Nice friends.

  ‘Now, what are you good at?’ says Kerstin.

  I think about that. ‘I’m good at spotting all kinds of fake things,’ I say.

  She writes down: Not cheap. Likes quality stuff.

  ‘What about sports or painting?’ Kerstin asks.

  ‘I’m not much good at painting,’ I say. ‘But I’m quite good at sports – at least, I don’t give up.’

  ‘Great,’ she says. ‘Sports is really good.’

  On The List Of Great Things About Dani, she writes down: Ready to have a go.

  ‘And you have lots to give other people,’ says Kerstin.

  She quickly adds:

  Quite interesting.

  Can be funny at times.

  Not moody.

  Not usually boring or self-centred.

  Then she st
rikes the final line through.

  ‘How are we doing?’ I ask.

  Kerstin reads out the list. As she reads it, she picks up another biscuit and bites half of it off. The second biscuit is a slice of caramel shortbread. They’re 205 calories each. She’s consumed 287 calories in the space of five minutes.

  One rule of my strategy is I can never get more than one point at a sitting – which is a pity, because if Kerstin stuck around long enough, I might make enough points to have a chance of being happy today. Plus I’d have a list of great things about me made at the same time.

  ‘Right, you’re going to Blu-Tack this list to your mirror,’ says Kerstin. ‘Then every time you look in the mirror and think you’re fat or ugly, you read through the list of great things about yourself. Then you can try some aphorisms too. What aphorisms shall we make up for you?’

  ‘What’s an aphorism?’ I say, like I don’t know.

  If I humour her and pretend to be an idiot, she might eat another biscuit. Luckily I’ve remembered that if I can get someone to eat a biscuit or something else that contains over 100 calories – that they might not otherwise have eaten – I earn an extra point. I didn’t just make that up.

  So, rather daringly, I pick up the plate and push it a little closer towards her. There’s another caramel slice on it. The Alien jumps out from behind a retro sideboard and looks on in a really melodramatic, shock-horror, fake way. He clasps a tentacle over his mouth and makes saucer eyes.

  ‘OK,’ says Kerstin, ‘we’ll do one aphorism this visit. Then next time I come I’ll give you another one. I think you should say, “I am beautiful.” OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘So after you’ve read the list which is Blu-Tacked on your mirror, you say, “I am beautiful” ten times. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘I really don’t know why you haven’t tried doing this before.’

  Neither do I.

  ‘It’s going to be so awesome when you start getting better.’

  ‘I am getting better,’ I say. ‘I had six of those biscuits this morning.’

  Sometimes if you say stuff like that, it encourages others to eat as well.

  I wait hopefully.

  Kerstin picks up another biscuit.

  See.

  The Alien does a Highland fling of victory.

  ‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘Then I guess I shouldn’t worry about having another.’

  She puts the caramel slice in her mouth and crunches. I’m so happy. I get another point. All I have to do is keep her talking for ten minutes to make sure she doesn’t go out and vomit. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’m doing quite well today.

  ‘I think I should eat something healthier than biscuits though, Kerstin,’ I say. ‘Is there an aphorism to help me do that?’

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘I’m going to think of one.’

  ‘Yes, please do,’ I say.

  A new thought has just struck Kerstin whilst chewing the biscuit. ‘You could eat lots of fruit. Fruit has no calories. You won’t mind that, will you?’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘Fruit has fewer calories.’

  ‘Next time I visit I’m going to bring a whole bunch of grapes and – what’s your favourite fruit? Do you like apples? They’re really good for you.’ She doesn’t wait for my reply. She seems to be mentally ticking things off on a list of what she’s going to do for me.

  I wait politely and don’t remind her that addiction clinics have canteens.

  She jumps up and gives me a hug. ‘It’s been so great to see you, Dani,’ she says. ‘And it’s so great to know you’re doing so well. Don’t forget all the tips I’ve given you! I’ll call you with the best aphorisms to promote eating when I’ve done some more research. And I’ll tell you all about all the buff boys I’m dating.’

  I glance at the clock. Just keep her talking.

  Should I ask her about the newspaper article now? Even though it might spoil everything?

  ‘I’d like the eating aphorism now so I can get well quicker and start dating sooner,’ I say.

  ‘OK,’ she says. She pulls a face and reflects.

  That was definitely the right thing to say.

  She sits down again and gets out her pen and paper.

  ‘You can say, “I love food” ten times before every meal, and do tapping. I’ll write it all down. You tap your forehead when you say: I love food. Like this.’ She demonstrates tapping for me, then starts scribbling a full set of instructions.

  Only one minute left.

  The Alien is going crazy.

  ‘FABULOUS!’ I scream.

  Kerstin is beaming. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘You know I’d do anything for you, Dani, just anything. All you have to do is ask.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ I mumble.

  Dare I? Surely now is the right time?

  ‘Anything,’ she says.

  ‘Could you check out a news article for me?’ My heart starts pounding. ‘It’s kind of urgent and important.’ I rush the rest of the request out before I lose courage. ‘We all have to do a life timeline in here and I need more information. It’s not just that. I was put in care, you see, and I’ve had a really scary memory out of nowhere. From a very early time I don’t remember. It would really help me. You might need to ring someone up to make enquiries.’

  ‘Just email me the details, darling. I’m committed to making sure your recovery is a total success!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, a bit overwhelmed. How easy was that?

  If only the article was about an entirely different four-year-old.

  ‘This visit has been a huge hit, don’t you think? I’m such an awesome friend to you!’ she says, swinging her massive designer bag over her shoulder.

  She blows me an ostentatious air-kiss.

  On the way out, she picks the last biscuit off the plate.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It really has been a hit – it’s been totally terrific. Please do come again.’

  28

  There are no free meal tickets. One way or the other you pay for everything.

  After Kerstin leaves, I have to face the fact that I was really mean and fake and possibly murderous to her. It doesn’t make it any better that she was unaware of how cruel and mean I was.

  I know, and the Alien knows, and you can’t hide from yourself.

  So I take another kind of inventory after she’s gone. On the piece of paper she left, I draw another column and I write:

  • You're sneaky.

  • You're mean.

  • You laugh at other people and pretend to agree with them.

  • You always think they're patronizing you.

  • You make them eat when they may not want to.

  • You encourage them to get fat.

  • Biscuits are full of hydrogenated fats and empty calories, and you've contributed to their heart disease.

  • You're killing them.

  • You're hateful.

  • You don't deserve any of the points you got this morning.

  • If you don't text Kerstin and tell her she doesn't have to bother coming again, you can't keep the points.

  • You must apologize to her.

  • She was so kind and really wanted to help you.

  • And she agreed so willingly to look into that news article.

  I text her and say: Hi Kerstin. I don’t deserve to be your friend. You were really genuine today, and I don’t deserve that kind of treatment. Please don’t worry about me. You don’t need to come again.

  I stop and then I add: If you don’t want to. I will miss you.

  Then I add: I’m going to send you a link for the information I need. Thank you so much for agreeing to research it for me. You really are an awesome friend.

  I delete I’ll miss you.

  I’m not sure that I’ll miss her. But I also don’t know that I won’t miss her. I don’t add it back though, because even if it turns out to be true, it seems a bit manipulative and this text has g
ot to be totally genuine if I’m going to keep the points.

  I press ‘send’.

  It sends.

  And I start missing her.

  29

  I get a letter from Fletcher.

  Dear Dani,

  I’m doing the journaling as promised - all that stuff about accepting our mothers didn’t love us. I’ve decided to get way more shit out of my head about my own mother than you’ll probably want to hear. Sorry to dump it on you. You don’t have to read it all. Just writing it down has shifted it for me. I think it’d be good if you could do some journaling too. Here goes.

  1) She gave my things away without even asking me. Though later she claimed she did ask me. Maybe she threw them away. They were always the things I really wanted to keep too. If I was really upset and moaned about it, I got told they were never really mine to begin with, because I didn’t earn any money, so they’d all been paid for by someone else.

  2) She noticed every bodily function I had, and embarrassed me by mentioning them in company, like how often I did a shit or left the toilet seat up or missed out on showering. She always put it like she was really concerned, because maybe I had bowel cancer or something, so other people didn’t guess she was being mean to me.

  You can probably stop reading here. It’s all a bit personal. Sorry about that.

  3) I never had any privacy. She would regularly go through my things. She liked to dig into my feelings and ask nosy questions, like if I’d had sex yet.

  4) She’d do things absolutely against my wishes, even when I’d told her not to do them.

  5) She complained that nobody took any notice of her and that nobody loved her, even when I was the only person in the room. Then she would take pains to tell me that she’d been treated in a very loving way by some random person. She would go on and on about it at every opportunity. Like how AMAZING it was that someone had been SO KIND to her and that they must REALLY LIKE her. She might even call these people her ‘adopted sons’ if they were my age - which they usually were. Whenever she did that there was this little teasing smile dancing somewhere across her lips.