The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

Dad looks at me. I’m about to shake my head when he says, “Max, want to do the honors?” The waiter switches direction.

  Oh God. I’m not sure why my parents think the rules don’t apply here. I guess they’re assuming I’ll be so excited about having a drink, I’ll forget that, y’know, I’m bloody anorexic. Or maybe it’s a holiday thing—Mum always says her diet doesn’t count when she’s on holiday.

  Unfortunately, mine does. However much I want to, I can’t shut Ana up.

  Alcohol’s really calorific. There are like a million calories in one sip of wine.

  The waiter pours a little into my glass and looks at me expectantly. I look at Dad, then Mum. There’s this horrible silence that lasts about three ice ages. It’s like a total standoff.

  Mum grins at me, and it makes me want to snap: This isn’t funny, Mum. “You know, Max, most of the flavor comes from the smell,” she says. She reaches over, grabs the glass, and does an exaggerated sniff. “Many oenophiles just smell it to see if it’s good.”

  “Eno—what?”

  “Oenophiles,” Dad chips in. “Wine experts.”

  Mum’s eyes flick to Dad. She looks mad at him for some reason.

  “Um, okay,” I say. I’m pretty certain Mum and Dad have never ever not tasted the wine they’re supposed to be tasting. But I’m happy to run with it.

  Mum hands the glass back to me, grinning again. I hold the cup of the glass with both hands—I’m shaking so much I’m worried I’ll drop it—and sniff. I have no idea what I’m even supposed to be smelling.

  “It’s good?” the waiter says. He looks kind of mad, too, like, Why is this stupid teenager wasting my time?

  I nod at him. He smiles a big fake smile, then pours glasses for Mum and Dad, then tops mine off. Mum gives me this big, cheesy thumbs-up.

  “I’m still going to drink it,” I say when the waiter’s gone. Then I add: “Hopefully.”

  I mean it, too. Sometimes, it’s not the food exactly, but the pressure of the moment. Once the moment is over, you stop freaking out and feel a bit stronger.

  “I know,” Mum says. She reaches over and lays her hand on mine. “But you don’t have to, love. It’s okay.”

  Mum and Dad didn’t get this idea at all to start with. If I couldn’t eat something there and then, they’d assume the sky was falling in. But I guess they’ve got used to it. To me. To Ana.

  For a moment, I’m really happy. Then I remember I still have to order food.

  Go wild, fatty. Gotta work on that belly.

  The menu’s all in Italian, but I can work most of it out. It’s a posh restaurant, so there’s no pizza, which is my go-to order, because at least you know exactly what you’re getting then. At this kind of place, you’re supposed to order a starter, pasta, and then a main course. I guess that’s what Mum and Dad will be doing. When you’re anorexic, you spend a lot of time sitting around watching other people eat. It’s crazy-boring.

  Eventually, I decide on a caprese salad.

  Good choice. As long as it’s not drowning in oil.

  I know the waiter’s going to say something like, Is that all? at which point I will totally die inside. But I know I’ll feel worse if I order something else. Plus, we’ve come up with an okay way of dealing with this situation. Dad will say something like, “He’s going to share with me,” and they’ll bring out an extra plate, and we’ll smear a bit of sauce on it or whatever. It works fine as long as the restaurant is big enough that there aren’t waiters around all the time. I think it will work here.

  And you know what? It’s okay. Everything is okay. I pick at my caprese salad for two hours while Mum and Dad eat their way through a plate of meat and olives, then pasta, then steak (Mum) and duck (Dad), but I don’t even mind, because it’s their anniversary, and they deserve to have a nice night. Sure enough, my salad is swimming in olive oil, but I don’t freak out. I just pick out each bit and let it drain off before eating it. I mean, I’ve got plenty of time to kill.

  I even drink the wine—some of it. Mum asks me how it tastes, and I say it’s delicious, because I don’t want to say, It’s like sour fruit juice and I can’t believe I wasted calories on this. The worst thing? I only had a sip, but I have no clue how many calories that is, so I have to count it as a whole glass.

  It doesn’t matter. Everything’s okay.

  But then, Mum and Dad fall out.

  Big time.

  Have you ever noticed how the biggest arguments start with the most stupid things? I remember one Easter, when I was about ten, Mum and Auntie Jess had a massive argument—like screaming-and-shouting-and-storming-out-of-the-house-and-not-talking-for-a-couple-of-months-afterward massive—about whether you should hang clothes on radiators. Seriously.

  Well, tonight, it starts with dessert.

  Dad, to Mum: Do you want dessert?

  Mum: I don’t mind.

  Dad: It’s up to you.

  Mum: Why is it up to me?

  Dad: I just mean I’m not fussed.

  Mum: Why do I have to make all the decisions? Why can you never be bothered?

  Dad: Come off it, Becks.

  Mum: Every time we do anything, it’s, like, “Becks, you choose.”

  Dad: It’s called being polite.

  “It’s polite to ask,” Mum says. Her voice goes weak and wobbly and high-pitched; I can tell she’s about to cry. “But it’s not always my responsibility to make a decision. I should be allowed to bounce the odd ball back into your court, you know?”

  “You are.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “We’ll have dessert.”

  “I don’t want dessert. That’s not the point. For God’s sake, Joe. Are you listening to me?”

  “Of course,” says Dad.

  And so am I. I’m listening as my mum rips the guts out of my dad in the middle of a restaurant. On their anniversary. Over nothing.

  I mean, yeah. She has a point. Dad is terrible at making decisions, and it can be annoying sometimes, especially when the decision doesn’t matter at all. Like, for instance, there are two Indian takeaways near us, both the same distance away, but in opposite directions. And whenever we get takeaway Dad spends twenty minutes going around the house asking our opinions—Robin, you like bhuna, don’t you? Do they do that at the Mahal?—when what he should really do is just pick one.

  But it always comes from a good place, you know? That’s how it feels to me, anyway. Like he wants us to have what we want.

  And it’s not really that big a deal. Is it?

  Mum seems to think it is.

  We don’t get dessert. Dad makes a point of asking to see the menu—even I can tell this is a bad call—but neither of them reads it. Mum finishes her wine and reaches over and grabs my glass without even looking at me, and finishes that, too. When the waiter comes back around, Dad asks for the bill.

  “Il conto, per favore.”

  Then we sit in silence for about ten minutes.

  Then the waiter comes back, and Dad pays, and we all say thank you.

  Then we get into the car and drive back to our campsite.

  I guess there’s a bright side to all this. For once, the argument isn’t my fault.

  20

  Tomorrow will be different. The phrase from the letter echoes around inside my head. What I want to know is, different how?

  Tomorrow, the number on my calendar will be one higher.

  Tomorrow, I’ll probably have finished the book I’m reading.

  Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, I might see a honey buzzard.

  What else?

  So, I know Evie—or whoever wrote that note—said that it doesn’t actually mean tomorrow. It’s more like: at some point in the future, your life will be totally different to how it is today. But I can’t help thinking about it that way. Anorexia kills 20 percent of the people who get it. There’s a pretty good chance I don’t have that many tomorrows left. I’ve got to think short-term.

  We’re supposed to be going to Sirmio
ne this morning, which is a little town built on a peninsula that juts out into the lake. There’s a big medieval castle right on the water; our guidebook describes it as breathtaking.

  When I wake up, I dig around in my suitcase, and pull out one of the three books I’ve brought with me: a guide to the birds of Northern Italy. I turn to the page with the folded-down corner: buzzards. I want to check which habitat is best for seeing honey buzzards again.

  Honey Buzzard. Pernis apivorus. Family: Accipitridae. L 52–59 cm, WS 113–115 cm. Summer visitor (late Apr–Sep). Common. Breeds mainly in forest clearings in mountainous areas.

  Identification

  Slightly larger than Common Buzzard. The key differences are slimmer neck …

  It’s not like honey buzzards are particularly rare or anything. But we barely get them in England, and I like the name, I guess. I’d love to see a lammergeier, too. But you don’t get them outside of the Alps—and even there, they’re pretty hard to see.

  Then I start flicking through all the other birds I might come across: warblers, pygmy owls, alpine swifts. I think I saw a crag martin, Ptyonoprogne rupestris, yesterday, but I didn’t have my binoculars with me so I couldn’t tell for sure. Italy isn’t really known for its birds, but I’m making the best of it. I’ve got to do something to fill my time, right?

  I’m not exactly looking forward to breakfast, and not just for the normal reasons. Here’s the thing: Italy is great at most kinds of food, but they can’t do breakfast. You get a cappuccino or a hot chocolate (or if you’re me, a black tea or a glass of water), and a stale roll. That’s it. We’ve been eating at the campsite most days, so it doesn’t really matter—I’ve been having cornflakes. But today, we’re planning to leave early and eat breakfast in Sirmione.

  I check my phone: 8:37 a.m. We were supposed to leave before eight, and Dad’s pretty uptight about sticking to schedules. I can count the number of times he’s been late for anything on one hand. I get up and go to find him.

  Instead, I find Mum. She’s sitting in the kitchen eating a slice of toast on her own. There wasn’t any bread in the house last night, so she must’ve been out already without me hearing.

  She doesn’t say anything when I walk into the room, which is weird. Mum greets me with a cheery Morning, love! every day, even if we’ve argued or whatever. But she just looks at me.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  She flinches slightly—the kind of flinch that would make Dad say, Someone walking on your grave?

  “Your dad’s gone out.”

  “Where? Aren’t we going to Sirmione?”

  “Not today, love.”

  I feel a little twinge of relief when she says love. I thought she might be cross with me.

  “How come?”

  “We’re just not,” Mum says abruptly. She gives me a please-can-you-drop-it look.

  “Okay.”

  Then she does a 180º, and gives me this huge, mushy smile. Mum sucks at losing her temper. She normally apologizes after about seven seconds, and still feels guilty about it days afterward. “How about you go bird-watching today? There was that one you wanted to find …”

  “A honey buzzard. But I’m not sure I’ll see one this close to the lake.” There’s this bird-watching motto: If you’re happy to see a sparrow, you’re never disappointed. Which means, basically: Don’t get your hopes up. Birders love lame mottos. Another one is Once bittern, twice shy. When you’re starting out, you think you’ve seen all these rare birds, like bitterns and lammergeiers. But 99 percent of the time, you haven’t.

  “But there’s a chance?”

  It’s funny. Mum’s never taken much interest in my bird-watching before—it’s much more Dad’s thing. But right now, she’s giving me this pleading look, as if me seeing a honey buzzard would pretty much make her year.

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t want to let her down. “Especially if I walk up into the hills.”

  Another mushy smile. “That’s good. Make sure you take your phone.”

  I’m confused. Is she asking me to go out, or telling me? “What are you going to do? When’s Dad coming back?”

  “I’m going to read for a bit, love. Be back for lunch, okay?”

  I know I should leave it there, but I have this heavy feeling in my stomach, like I’m going over a speed bump. Like the universe’s tilted on its side, and we’re about to fall off. “Mum,” I say.

  “What is it, Max?”

  “Is everything all right?”

  She kneads her eyeballs. Which is never good. “Can you just do what I asked?”

  I don’t say anything else. I go to my room, get my stuff, and leave. As soon as I close the door, I realize I haven’t had any breakfast.

  I carry on walking.

  There are a dozen paths that run from the campsite into the woods, along the lake, up into foothills. No one uses any of them, except for the one that goes straight to the beach. Twenty yards from the door of our cabin, I’m totally alone.

  It’s sunny, but it’s cold in the forest: You can feel the temperature drop the moment you step under the trees. The sun jabs its way through the beech canopy, casting leopard spots on the ground, which dance in the breeze coming off the lake.

  I go along the main path leading away from the campsite until I hit a junction. Four paths. One loops around to the far end of the beach, where the rock pools are, where I spent most of yesterday looking for crabs. One is marked ALL’AUTOSTRADA: “to the motorway.” The other two are nature trails. I take a look at my campsite map. The right-hand one hugs the lake and leads to a little village called Entera. The other curves up into the foothills, then back down on the other side of the campsite.

  I take that one. It’ll be quieter—not that there are exactly a ton of people around—and I’ll have a better chance of seeing a buzzard if I’m higher up.

  I walk for a bit, scanning the canopy for birds. I see Italian sparrows browsing on the ground, and a couple of redstarts. If you’re happy to see a sparrow, you’re never disappointed, I tell myself.

  The path climbs pretty quickly out of the lake valley. After a few minutes, I’m puffing. I think my anemia’s getting worse. I sit down on a rock to catch my breath. I check my phone, to see if there are any geocaches near here, even though I’ve already checked a bunch of times, and I know there aren’t.

  And I tell myself I’m having fun.

  You can’t even get your own parents to hang out with you.

  Sometimes it feels like the worst part of anorexia isn’t anything to do with food. It’s not about how scared I am of getting fat or my next meal, or any of that stuff. Sometimes, it feels like the worst part is the way Ana sucks the fun out of everything I do. Even when I’m doing stuff I enjoy—looking for birds, or watching a film, or whatever—I feel rubbish after about ten seconds.

  I’m anemic: There’s not enough iron in my blood, and the color’s slowly draining out of me. And at the same time, my world is turning gray. I’m sitting in a forest. The leaves above me are lime and emerald, depending on how the sun’s hitting them. Below me, the lake is a deep, shimmering blue. I’m wearing red sneakers, a yellow T-shirt. But it all feels gray.

  When I get back, Dad’s unloading the car. I’m a little nervous about what he’s chosen for lunch, without my input: This definitely isn’t the deal. But I can’t complain too much, because it’s bound to be less stressful than eating out in Sirmione would’ve been.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say. I’m surprised at how happy I am to see him. I guess I didn’t realize how worried I was until now. “No honey buzzards, again, but I did see …” I peter out when he looks up, and I catch his face. “What’s wrong?”

  Then I notice a lot of things all at once.

  The suitcase in the trunk.

  The file of documents Dad’s holding.

  The jacket he’s got slung over his arm, even though it’s 32 degrees Celsius here.

  Dad isn’t unloading the car.

  He’s leaving.
r />   August 2

  Sorry I haven’t written back until now. I went on holiday right after I got your last note. Hopefully you haven’t got bored and given up or whatever.

  Anyway, the holiday was a total disaster. My mum and dad had this massive argument, and Dad ended up leaving the holiday early. Then me and Mum sat around for a week with nothing to do. She tried to tell me it wasn’t a big deal. Dad just went home early because there are elections soon. (My dad works for the county council.) But I’m not stupid. He’s never even worked late before, let alone skipped a holiday. I wanted to call her a liar, and make her tell me what was really going on. But I made the mistake of looking her in the eye.

  Fun fact: You stop looking people in the eye when you’re like me. Aka, when you’re anorexic. (Now that I know someone’s reading this, it feels weird writing that word. I’ve been keeping it secret for so long.) I’m not sure why it happens exactly. I guess you’re sort of scared of what you might see.

  Anyway, when I looked properly at my mum for the first time in weeks, I saw how upset she was. With me. With my dad. With everything. So I went along with it. I pretended Dad was busy, and everything was okay.

  For the rest of the holiday, we basically stayed around the campsite. We didn’t have much choice: Dad took the rental car with him when he left. Mum didn’t feel like doing much. She mainly just read her book in the cabin, or sometimes by the pool. I spent the whole week walking around Lake Garda, looking for birds. But I didn’t see the one I really wanted to see.

  July 27th was actually my birthday, and it was the worst day of all. It’s the first birthday I’ve had since being ill, and, well, it wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. No pun intended. We agreed the day before that I wouldn’t open any presents until I got home, so I could do it with Dad, too. I went for a walk by myself, and while I was out, Mum went to the camp shop and got loads of ingredients to make a cake, which was really nice of her, because she definitely wasn’t in the mood. The problem was neither of us actually wanted to eat any cake. At home, we’d feed it to my dad and my brother, but they weren’t there. I ended up breaking it into crumbs and feeding it to the birds.