by Pollen
Hey, at least it’s distracting me from everything else.
2
According to Lindsay, there are three stages. Stage one is, you want to eat less than your body wants you to. Stage one is simple. You start to lose weight. You feel better for a little while. Then you feel terrible.
Stage two is wanting to eat less than other people want you to. People start to notice you’ve lost weight and try to make you eat more. Some people spend their whole lives in stage two, fighting people’s expectations. Some people die in stage two. When you’re like me, there’s nothing more important than what people think of you. In my opinion, this is the worst part of the whole thing. Not the disease itself, but the distance it puts between you and everyone else.
If you can make it through that, you get to stage three: the light at the end of the tunnel. Sort of. Stage three is, you’re okay with eating anything, as long as you’re in control. You’re in recovery. The bad news is, stage three can be permanent. You never stop needing to be in control.
But there’s more bad news. Because it’s way, way easier to slide down than it is to climb up. It’s like a game of Snakes and Ladders where there are no ladders. However high you climb, you’re always one wrong move away from being right back at square one.
All it takes is a little bit of pressure. One moment that you’ve not prepared for. One situation that you don’t know how to deal with.
Like Christmas dinner, for instance.
I spot it immediately: the blue tub with a spoon in it. Suddenly I’m on a roller coaster, plummeting toward the ground.
“Mum,” I mumble.
Mum turns around, sees my face, connects the dots.
“It helps them crisp up, love,” Mum says. “I do it every year.”
This year isn’t every year, I want to tell her. How can you not see that?
“You’re not measuring,” I say.
It sounds really childish. Petty. She’s putting some lard on the potatoes and she’s not measuring. So what? But that’s the biggest thing about being the way I am: Other people don’t get the rules.
“I’ve used less than four ounces,” Mum says confidently, trying to avoid a scene. This is what we agreed on: four ounces of fat for the potatoes, total. This is the number I based my whole plan for the day on.
But she wasn’t measuring. She can’t know how much she’s used, and it looks like a lot. So, I say the thing I don’t want to say, the thing I know will upset her, because I can’t not say it. “I’ll just have two.”
“Max, love,” Mum says, massaging her temples.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly. This is one of my mantras: It’s not a big deal. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. “Honestly. I’ll just have two.”
Mum sighs and goes back to tossing the potatoes in the pan.
At one o’clock, Dad returns from fetching Gran, who promptly distributes her cheeses. Then Mum tells us to go sit at the table, because dinner’s almost ready.
The dining room looks great. Mum takes entertaining pretty seriously—I think it’s a sibling rivalry thing—and it’s clear the moment you look at the table. We’ve each got a Christmas cracker, and a holly-print napkin folded into a bishop’s hat. And, of course, there’s the centerpiece. It’s a Howarth family classic: a papier-mâché sleigh, two feet long, pulled by a grand total of thirteen reindeer. Everyone who has Christmas dinner with us has to make a reindeer. Mine, which I made when I was five, is an empty toilet-paper roll with pipe-cleaner legs.
I glance across at Mum. She seemed really stressed this morning, but now, she’s beaming. Mum’s one of those people who seems to live entirely for her family. I don’t mean she doesn’t work; Mum’s a lawyer, and she does longer hours than Dad, who works for the county council. I mean, socially, Mum doesn’t do much other than hang out with us. She never goes to the pub with her friends like Dad does, and she’s not in any clubs or societies or anything. Which means the way things are at home pretty much determines how happy she is. Lately, she hasn’t been happy at all.
We all tell her how great the table looks, then take our seats. I’m between Gran and Robin. I asked Mum not to put me next to Auntie Jess or my cousins because I was worried they’d quiz me on why I wasn’t eating more.
“Christmas crackers!” Louise squeaks.
I pull my cracker with Gran. I look at her wrist, and I can’t decide whose is thinner, hers or mine. Gran lives on her own, and 90 percent of the time, she eats these microwave meals she gets delivered—nice ones, that come with little cards telling you about the farmers who grow the ingredients, or where they catch the fish, or whatever. Each card also has the number of calories in the dish printed on it. I think about this a lot: how much easier it would be if someone did all the counting for me. If I never had a choice.
Mum and Robin start bringing out food. Soon, the table is heaving with plates of stuffing, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, sprouts, gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, and a huge turkey. I feel sick just looking at it all.
Mum’s already made up my plate in the kitchen. She puts it down in front of me while everyone else is helping themselves. For one sweet moment, I think no one’s noticed. But then Gran says, “Is that all you’re having, Max?”
Shit.
I can feel my cheeks burning. I’m trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye, but it’s kind of tricky when everyone around the table is looking at you. I stare at my reindeer.
Robin tuts loudly. “No wonder, the way you were going at those croissants this morning, Max.”
I look up at him. He winks.
Sometimes, my brother is the coolest person ever.
“What a shame,” Gran mutters. I’m pretty convinced she’s about to start lecturing me about how Your mum’s gone to all this effort. But she doesn’t say anything else.
Thank God.
That’s when I look down at my plate and realize Mum’s given me three potatoes. My stomach lurches again, for the second time in thirty seconds. I’ve not even taken one bite yet, and Christmas dinner is already a disaster.
I mentally recalibrate. Today’s really important to Mum. I’ll eat the potato and lop some calories off tea. No big deal.
Uncle Rich is talking about his new car, a hybrid. This is the third Christmas in a row he’s talked about it. The year before last, he took us through what a good idea electric cars are in general. Last year, he had a short list and was seriously considering a purchase. Now we get the full review.
Robin, who’s about as interested in cars as I am in woodwork, pipes up. “You must need a really long extension cord.”
My uncle laughs in that way that also gets across how little he appreciates being interrupted. Like when a Bond villain laughs at one of Bond’s jokes.
“Hey, Louise,” says my dad, seizing the opportunity to change the topic. “Do you remember which reindeer is yours?”
Louise nods, like this is the stupidest question in the whole world, and points at the reindeer at the front of the pack, which is covered from snout to heel in pink glitter. “He’s called Mr. Sparkles,” she says, shaking her head as if she bitterly regrets this decision.
“He’s a pretty great reindeer,” says Robin. “James, which is yours again?”
James points at another reindeer, with sequins arranged all over it like scales. It’s like a disco ball in reindeer form. This is actually James’s second reindeer: A couple of years ago, he decided his first one wasn’t up to scratch.
“What’s he called?” asks Robin.
“Eric,” says James.
Robin laughs. “I guess Mr. Sparkles was taken.”
I can’t eat it. I’m staring at the last potato on my plate, and I can’t move, and I don’t know what to do. If I leave it, I know someone will say something. Gran, probably, or Auntie Jess. I’ve got to eat it. But eating one stupid potato suddenly feels like the hardest thing in the world. Like climbing K2 or running a hundred miles in one go.
Everyone�
�s still talking—I don’t think they’ve noticed anything’s wrong—but inside my head, there’s just electricity. A screaming wall of static between my brain and the rest of the world. That’s something a lot of people don’t get: Anorexia hurts. Only it’s a kind of pain you can’t really describe. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s like trying to explain color to someone who’s never seen color before.
But it hurts. Right now, it hurts so much I want to scream.
I hear Louise saying something. It sounds far away. “Is Max okay?”
I realize I have my head in my hands. I don’t look up, but I can feel everyone looking at me.
“Max?” Mum says.
“He’s not finished his dinner,” says Auntie Jess. “Are you feeling all right, Max?”
“He only had a couple of potatoes!” says Gran, amazed.
“He’s probably saving room for dessert,” Robin says. “My brother sure loves Christmas pudding.”
I know he’s trying to cover for me—again—but even the idea of this horrifies me. The idea of eating more. And now it feels like I don’t have another option. I’ll have to eat Christmas pudding, and I’ll have to eat loads. A bumper portion. I looked at the packet again yesterday. Our Christmas pudding is two pounds, and it’s supposed to feed eight. I can tell you how many calories are in each portion, how many grams of sugar and fat. I don’t try to memorize these numbers, but they stick to my brain, like gum to a pavement.
It’s an effort to look up at everyone. “That’s right,” I say, with a weak smile. I don’t know what else to say.
There are eight of us around the table. Mum hates Christmas pudding, so that’s seven. And Gran eats like a bird, and Louise is only seven years old. Which means I’ll get a sixth, maybe more. This meal will be the most calories I’ve eaten in one go in months.
You can’t do it. No way. Don’t be disgusting.
We had a plan. I was going to say I didn’t like Christmas pudding, and Mum was going to give me a meringue nest and six strawberries. But now the plan won’t work. It’s not just my head that hurts anymore. It’s everything. My nerves are on fire. My limbs feel like custard.
Mum and Robin are clearing away plates. Uncle Rich is talking about his car again, about how quiet the engine is. For once, I’m grateful. I want him to carry on talking about his dumb car forever.
When Mum brings out the pudding, everyone coos. I look up. Blue and pink flames lick at the sides of the dish. Dad makes some lame joke about not wasting the alcohol.
Mum glances at me when she starts serving. It’s a look that says, Please hold it together, Max. She starts across the table, with Louise. “Ladies first,” she says. Louise beams. “How much do you want, love?”
“Loads!”
Maybe it will be okay, if everyone has a big portion. But when I look at Louise’s bowl, I see Mum has given her barely anything.
Mum works her way around the table. When she gets to me, she dishes out about the same amount as Louise had. I can do this, I tell myself.
But then Uncle Rich says, “C’mon, Rebecca. Give him a proper portion.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say quickly.
“It’s Christmas Day!” says Auntie Jess. “It’s only one day.” She winks at me.
Mum gives me an apologetic look, then digs in again and adds a little more to my bowl. “There you go, love,” she says.
It didn’t seem like she added a lot, but somehow, it grows in front of me. It’s a mountain. It looks like at least half of the pudding. In my head, I calculate exactly how many calories that would be.
Look at it. God, it’s disgusting. How could anyone eat that much food?
I can’t do it. I can’t face it. I’m not strong enough.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I say, looking up at her for as long as I can bear. I can feel the tears coming. That rippling feeling behind my eyes.
“For what, love?” says Mum.
For spoiling Christmas. For not giving you even one day of rest. For everything.
I pull back my chair and run.
It was stupid. I know it was. It seemed like I didn’t have another option, but there’s always another option. I could’ve pretended I was ill. I mean cold-sweats-and-puking ill, not ill-in-the-head ill. Auntie Jess asked me if I was ill, for God’s sake. Why didn’t I just say yes?
I’m running toward the woods. We live on the edge of a big patch of woodland called Shepples Common. I go there a lot, more since I’ve been ill. It’s where I run, or used to run. Where I walk Sultan and watch birds.
My hiding place.
Once I hit the trees, I slow down and catch my breath. Now I actually feel ill. I guess running for ten minutes right after you’ve eaten a roast dinner isn’t the smartest idea.
You could make yourself sick.
The thought leaps into my head from nowhere. As Lindsay’s very fond of telling me, anorexia is different for everyone. Technically, there are like five different types of eating disorders, and they all have different symptoms. Anorexics starve themselves; bulimics binge and make themselves sick, or take laxatives to get the food out of their body. And so on. But the boundaries are pretty fluid. For example, lots of anorexics make themselves sick occasionally.
I’ve never done it, though. I’m too scared. I can’t stop picturing myself ripping my throat open or choking to death on my own hand or something else equally horrible. I’m not much of a binger, either. I’ve never gobbled a whole pack of doughnuts or a family-size pizza. The furthest I’ll go is licking the knife after I’ve cut something, to get a few extra crumbs, and then hating myself for it. I’m the most controlling, the most neurotic sort of anorexic: the restrictor. Everything is about numbers, rules, routines. It’s not the kind of eating disorder you read about in the papers. It’s boring. Anorexia, slow and steady.
And then, before I know it, before I can think myself out of it, I’m crouched down next to a tree, with my fingers down my throat. If I’m going to be like this, I want to do it right. I want to be the textbook anorexic. The one everyone wants me to be.
I gag and immediately remove my fingers. I’m too scared. I cough, spit, slump down on the mud and leaf mulch. My throat stings, and I feel a hot lump forming, like I’m about to cry.
You can’t even do anorexia right. What kind of anorexic can’t make themselves sick?
I call her Ana. Her, it: the monster inside me. The voice inside my head.
Imaginative name, right?
It doesn’t actually feel like someone else. It feels like me. They’re my thoughts, my feelings. But Lindsay says it’s good to externalize the disease. So, I’m doing my best. That’s why I write my diary and address it to her: to remind myself that my disease isn’t me. I haven’t told Lindsay about that, though. It’s too embarrassing. Like the kind of thing a kid would do.
At the moment, she’s in my head 24/7. When I stand in a mirror and turn to my side, she tells me,
Your belly sticks out.
When I’m about to eat a cereal bar, she says,
Better check the calories.
even though I’ve already checked them a hundred times. Even though I could recite them in my sleep.
She asks questions all the time, too.
Do you really need to eat that?
Is Robin avoiding you?
Is that girl across the street staring at you?
I try to ignore her. But she never shuts up for long.
And right now, she’s really mad at me.
I start to cry.
Don’t be so pathetic. You’re acting like a whiny little girl.
“Max? Are you there?”
Robin. Over the years, my brother has spent as much time in these woods as I have. I haven’t exactly chosen the greatest hiding place. I look around. This bit of the woods is mostly birch: light and airy. Spread out. Anorexics are good at avoiding people—but right now, I’ve got nowhere to hide.
I stand up and walk toward my brother. Did he hear me retching? Will h
e say anything if he did?
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. You all right?”
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “I’m fine.”
“You scared us, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
Robin shrugs, like he doesn’t know whether to accept my apology or not. “At least you gave me an excuse not to listen to Uncle Rich anymore.” He grins. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
I figured Robin would be on strict orders to bring me straight home, but if he is, he ignores them. We walk deeper into the Common, then loop back around toward home. We cross the peat bogs and end up at Deanwater: a big, peanut-shaped artificial lake. As usual, it’s teeming with ducks, geese, coots, and moorhens. At the narrowest part, a heron stands on a stump and surveys his terrain. I wish I had my new binoculars with me.
We sit down on a bench and look out across the water. There’s a sour taste in my mouth: I guess a bit of bile came up when I was retching. I swallow. My throat feels raw.
Robin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of chewing gum, offers it to me. “It’ll take the taste away.”
A bolt of ice shoots down my spine. So he did hear me.
“No thanks,” I mumble.
“It’s sugar-free,” Robin says.
“I know,” I say. “It’s not that.” I look down, embarrassed. We both know it is not that. I’m suspicious of anything that has flavor—coffee, gum, Diet Coke—even when I know, rationally, there are no calories in it.
“Suit yourself. Hey,” he says. He reaches into his coat again and pulls out my wooden box. “Any guesses yet?” he says.
“Why did you …,” I begin, but I let myself trail off. You learn not to ask why when you’re talking to Robin. I still have no idea what the box is, so I just shake my head.
“Feel under the bench,” he says. I must look confused, because he adds, “Trust me.” That seems to be Robin’s catchphrase today.
I don’t really want to feel under the bench, because if school’s anything to go by, it’ll be covered in old gum, or worse. But reluctantly, I do as my brother says. I start in the middle, sliding my hands toward my end. It feels like the underside of a bench: wooden slats covered in a powdery layer of lichen and mold. Cold, wet metal. On the plus side, there’s no chewing gum.
