The Food of Love

by Amanda Prowse

  Freya envied the deep and restful sleep that engulfed him, pulling her long hair into a ponytail and folding it over, securing it high in a messy knot. Tendrils escaped instantly, falling over her blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes. She plucked a tissue and blew her nose before beginning to write.

  Brewster has just arrived. You know how he pulls that snooty face, as if we all need reminding that he’s the boss, we work for him and have disappointed him in some way? He did that and is now curled up on the sofa, sleeping. Do you remember when we first got him? He was so tiny and you just couldn’t leave him alone. He was your baby, wasn’t he? Daddy said he had to be shut in the kitchen at night so he could go out hunting if the fancy took him, but he loved nothing more than to be on your bed, curled up in the warmth, next to you.

  I used to listen to you sometimes. I’d stand outside the door and hear you chatting to him.

  Freya stopped writing and looked out of the window, thinking of the day she was called in to school, the first time she had heard the word ‘dyslexia’ bandied about, ‘dyspraxia’ too, a difficulty with fine and gross motor skills; Lexi’s teachers had used the terms so comfortably, saying them every day, writing them on various tick sheets and reports, as a catch-all for all sorts. But for her, it had felt like a physical blow.

  The thin man with the double-breasted suit, close-cropped beard and yellowing teeth, who came quarterly to assess any stragglers, kids who lurked at the back of the pack, was keen to talk about percentiles and to show her Venn diagrams that might in some way help her understand. And they did to a point. He played back a recording of her sweet girl burbling with excitement about her day spent on a boat.

  Freya smiled, picturing that very day in Florida, when they had all trundled back to her brother’s with sea salt–scorched skin, wobbly sea legs and faces that ached from laughing. Hugh had let Lexi skipper, revving the engine and cutting through the water in wide arcs that gave her mastery over the wind and sea, while she shouted at any other vessels, ‘We are on a boat!’ lest anyone should be in any doubt.

  The tape was hypnotic, Lexi’s babyish seven-year-old voice babbling with such energy about the whirr of the engine, the seagulls that had cried over her head circling the boat, and how the land had got further and further away until they were floating in the middle of the world like an island, and how it had made her feel a bit worried, as there were no other people around and she didn’t know their destination, but she didn’t tell anyone this, and she was mainly excited, as she got to steer the boat and then jump into the sea.

  Freya had smiled at him, proud; Lexi had used the word ‘destination’ and hadn’t taken a breath, desperate to tell him more. The thin man had then asked her to write down what she had said, to tell her story on the paper. ‘No need to change a thing, it’s a good story,’ he encouraged.

  He had then stopped the tape and handed Freya a notebook. She flicked open the blank pages and there in the middle two, where the staples lurked, Lexi had written three words that filled the space. Each letter was approximately three inches in height and spidered over the lines.

  ‘It took her an hour,’ he added, as if to emphasise the disconnect between her verbal and written acuity.

  Me teh boot.

  Freya continued to write.

  Me teh boot.

  That’s what you’d put, Lex. Do you remember? He asked you what it said and he told me you blushed and kicked at the desk, angry and embarrassed at the same time.

  ‘Me on the boat,’ you replied, ‘with my family, in the sea, and it was a really lovely day.’

  I knew then that life would throw up challenges for you. I also knew that you were incredible, and I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like, having all those words and ideas fizzing in your mind and not being able to get them down on paper. You described it once as like being the only person in a very busy, noisy place who doesn’t speak the language. That stuck with me, and all I ever wanted to do was be your translator, help you find your way.

  And you were right, darling: it was a really lovely day.

  FIVE

  The room was bright, austere, functional and a little on the chilly side. A child’s photograph sat on the desk, a little boy in denim dungarees with a pudding bowl haircut. He beamed at the lens, his snub nose wrinkled. He was cute as a button.

  ‘I’m going to need to measure and weigh you today, Lexi.’ Dr Morris spoke with authority, tapping into her keyboard as she did so. She was smartly dressed in a navy wool frock beneath her white medic’s coat. ‘I know that the idea of that might be scary.’

  Freya turned to look at her daughter, who had shrunk back in the plastic chair. Her chest heaved and her eyes were wide. She looked terrified.

  ‘It’s okay, darling.’ She tried to calm her, alarmed by her child’s reaction to the seemingly innocuous request.

  Lexi shook her head.

  ‘I . . . I can’t.’ Her eyes darted towards her mum.

  Dr Morris tucked her short, neat geometric haircut behind her ear. Leaning forward in her chair, she spoke directly to the scared teenager. ‘How often do you weigh yourself, Lexi?’

  ‘She doesn’t, really; we don’t have scales in the house. I’ve never seen the need,’ Freya interjected. She was not a vain woman, typical of those who are blessed with good genes and an easy grace. Far more important to her than her weight was that she felt good, and she usually did.

  The doctor nodded, ignoring her in part. ‘Is it because you don’t want your mum to know what you weigh, or because you don’t want to know?’

  ‘Both.’ The one-word response was barely audible.

  ‘I understand that. And I also understand how much courage it took for you to come here today and to open up to your parents. It’s brilliant, Lexi, it really is, but it’s only the first step. I give you my word that I will always be open with you and we shall go at your pace. I am going to ask you to trust me. How does that sound? Do you think you can trust me?’ She was firm, yet friendly.

  Lexi nodded.

  ‘That’s great.’ She smiled her encouragement. ‘The starting point to manage your situation is for me to know your weight. It’s a marker, the foundation, and I can’t go very far without it because we’d have nothing to build on. I need you to get on the scales.’

  Dr Morris stood and walked over to the scales in the corner. They were high-tech: a tall white column, a weighing scale with a black rubberised non-slip footplate and a long T-shaped bar with a double LCD display on top, one for weight and one for BMI. There was a smaller keypad for personal data to be entered.

  ‘Take off your shoes and your hoodie, please, Lexi, and any other bulky items, and remove any objects that might be in your pockets or anywhere else.’

  Freya looked at the doctor. It was a very strange thing to say. What did she think Lexi had secreted about her person? She gave a small cough, keeping her word to intervene in proceedings as little as possible and to stay calm.

  She watched as her little girl pulled off her trainers; there was the unmistakable clink of coins. Lexi blushed and hurriedly pushed them under the chair; ironically, from where Freya sat, this gave her a clearer view inside. She stared at the glint of metal, quite thrown by the sight of the two-pound coins that sat side by side, lining the inside of her shoes. Lexi glanced at her mum, aware that she had seen and grateful that she chose not to comment.

  Slowly she slipped her arms from her hoodie and pulled it over her head; the front pocket sagged with her phone, iPod and purse. Freya considered that the items were too obviously placed to have been hidden. But maybe Lexi thought no one would notice? Freya dismissed the thought.

  With one arm anchored to her side by the other, Lexi walked slowly across the shiny linoleum floor as if she were walking to the gallows. Her hesitant steps were painful to watch.

  ‘Come and stand against the wall, here.’ The doctor spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as she pointed to a metal-bar height chart fixed to the wall, with a sliding me
tal triangle that sat on top of the head to give the most accurate measurement, making swift work of bouffant hairdos. Lexi did as she was told. Her expression was excruciating.

  Freya could hardly bear to watch. She distracted herself by thinking of what to make for lunch. Something she could tempt Lexi with. She pictured fish tacos, one of Lexi’s favourites. Deciding on seared, blackened tuna fillets, with a sour-cream-and-chive dressing, served on deep-fried tacos with crispy shredded lettuce and grated beetroot – maybe she’d add a dash of wasabi in the dressing – and of course a quarter of lime left on the side. In her mind, the end result looked fresh, bright and Instagram-worthy; surely her daughter wouldn’t be able to resist?

  The sudden jolt of fear at the prospect of preparing food and then sitting at the table with Lexi sent guilt swimming into her veins. Instead, she turned her attention back to her child, who raised one foot and then the other, wobbling slightly on the platform that was no higher than three inches from the floor.

  ‘Nearly done. You are doing great.’

  Dr Morris punched a few of the buttons and they beeped accordingly. A single long beep signalled the end to her child’s immediate discomfort. The doctor made a note with a ballpoint on to a Post-it note, squinting and double-checking both digital readings.

  ‘You can pop your clothes back on, Lexi. That was really well done.’ She screwed up her face in a genuine smile of warmth. Freya liked her even more.

  ‘Okay!’ the doctor announced, with such energy that it sounded like a beginning, and that was all Freya wanted, the beginning of the end of this situation.

  She transferred the numbers from her Post-it note into her computer and sat back, waiting for Lexi to pop her hoodie back on and to slip her slender feet into her coin-filled shoes. The chink of coin against coin was evident, but Dr Morris didn’t mention it. She did, however, momentarily catch Freya’s eye. There was a split second of understanding, woman to woman, mother to mother.

  Lexi, now with her clothes and shoes, fully restored, sat back in the chair next to her mother.

  ‘Right, can you see this, Lexi? Come closer if you can’t.’

  She pointed to an image on her computer screen of a chart. It was a mass of tiny squares, filled with numbers, sitting on a vertical and horizontal axis. The whole chart was then shaded in four colours sitting inside of four arcs: green, yellow, amber and red. Lexi shifted forward in her chair and nodded. She could see it perfectly.

  ‘This is a chart to show BMI, or body mass index. I’m not going to confuzzle you with numbers or the science behind it right now, but by weighing and measuring you today, I can tell you that you are sitting here on the chart.’

  Freya concentrated as the doctor placed the tip of her pencil in the bottom left-hand corner.

  ‘You are five foot six and weigh a shade under six stone, three pounds, or eighty-seven pounds. Your BMI is fourteen point two and that puts you in the danger zone, Lexi. That’s why it’s red. Red for danger.’

  Freya was aware that she had gasped. Eighty-seven pounds . . . she repeated the figure in her head.

  The doctor continued, her voice a little echoey. ‘There can be certain health issues associated with such a low BMI. I saw on your notes that you have started your periods; are you still menstruating?’

  Lexi shook her head and again glanced at her mum.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Freya whispered.

  Again she remembered her confident tone when addressing Miss Burke: I have a great relationship with both of my daughters. I know them better than anyone and I think I might have noticed . . . Noticed what, Freya? She silently asked the question. You didn’t notice anything!

  She was only vaguely aware of the conversation between the kindly doctor and her child.

  ‘So, we will put your care plan in place, Lexi. I will give Mum some nutrition information, advice on protein shakes and some food-log sheets and we need to get your calorie intake up, to get you from here’ – again she pointed at the red – ‘and into here!’ She tapped the amber. ‘Just baby steps that are manageable. How does that sound?’

  Lexi nodded, which was good enough for Dr Morris.

  ‘Great!’ The doctor spoke with more enthusiasm than Freya felt.

  ‘When is a good time for me to call you, Mrs Braithwaite, so we can organise our next appointments? Is this afternoon okay, about half-two?’ Again, she held her gaze a fraction longer than was necessary.

  It was Freya’s turn to nod.

  Lockie was pacing the kitchen by the time they trod the stairs; her guess was that he had abandoned his laptop when he heard the key in the front door.

  ‘How did you get on?’ He rubbed his palms together, wasting no time on preliminaries.

  ‘She did really well.’ Freya nodded towards their daughter, who hovered by the table.

  ‘That’s great, Lex! Well done. So what’s the plan?’ he continued eagerly.

  ‘The plan is to take it slowly, to go through these nutrition sheets and to keep a food log and to get her daily calorie intake up.’

  Lockie gave her a knowing look; she knew that he, like her, would be thinking that it sounded great, but in practice however . . .

  She gave her false smile that was becoming so convincing, she could only just remember what her real one felt like.

  ‘What can I get you now, darling? A slice of toast?’ Lockie tilted his head and held Lexi’s eye.

  ‘Sure. No butter.’ She looked from one parent to the other. The relief in the room was palpable.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ He pushed his luck.

  ‘Sure. Can I have it upstairs?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course!’ Lockie grinned.

  Freya understood; such was her joy, she would have agreed to her eating it on the roof, anywhere. Anything! Just as long as she started eating and they could start to put this whole horrible business behind them.

  Lexi went up to her room and Freya pictured the coin-filled trainers, deciding not to confide this to Lockie. It was hard to explain just how her stomach had caved at the sight of the coins that would add a few measly ounces.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ He was keen to be updated.

  Freya rubbed her eyes and exhaled. ‘It was painful to watch. The way she walked to the scales, it was torture for her. Her weight is low, eighty-seven pounds, with a very low BMI, and the goal is to get her BMI up. I only took in about half of it. Dr Morris is calling me at two-thirty and I can ask more then. Oh, Lockie!’ She watched as he popped the bread in the toaster. ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘I know, love. Try not to worry. I’ll take it up to her and watch her eat it, not in a pressuring way, but just so we can have a chat, and I’ll sit with her for a wee while afterwards, to make sure it stays down.’ He was clearly happy to be part of the plan, his tone and actions telling her that he was now far less dismissive of his daughter’s illness.

  True to his words, Lockie had sat and watched as his daughter slowly, slowly, ate a slice of toast, following each mouthful with a gulp of tea, washing the offensive substance down her throat. He described the feat to Freya, detailing how he had sat on the end of her bed, chatting about his work, an upcoming photo shoot, Brewster’s antics, anything to fill the silent void and provide a smokescreen to the real purpose of his presence.

  It was a little after two-thirty that the phone in her study rang. Freya was already at the desk, waiting impatiently. She grabbed the phone in anticipation. It was Dr Morris.

  ‘I wanted to chat to you in private.’

  ‘Yes.’ Freya held her breath.

  ‘I expect you have lots of questions?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t really know where to start.’

  She tried to put her thoughts in order; closing her eyes, she let the words escape that had been battering her mouth for days. ‘I guess the main thing I want to know is how Lexi got like this, and more important, exactly how do we fix it? I know it’s just a blip, but to find those bags and to see her shoes this m
orning with coins in them—’

  ‘I noticed that too,’ Dr Morris interrupted, ‘and frankly, it doesn’t surprise me, not at all, but it’s a case of picking your battles. People with eating disorders are often deceitful; there are a dozen tricks they employ to hide weight loss and non-eating. It can feel a bit like a war, each side making moves and countermoves. And while we are on the subject, you do have scales in your house; you just might not know about them.’

  ‘My daughter is not a liar.’ Her tone was a little more assertive than she would have chosen were she not panicking inside.

  There was a beat of silence before the doctor continued.

  ‘I don’t know Lexi like you do, but I do deal with eating disorders every day of the week, and I find that the person you know and love can be altered, consumed by the disorder. Because of that, they may act in ways that you don’t recognise, and deceit is a big part of it. They are ashamed, and very often the last thing they want is intervention, and that means they have to lie.’

  Freya chose not to reply. She thought this was a bit extreme; they were, after all, talking about a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Dr Morris continued. ‘Her weight and her habits are of concern, but she is borderline right now for intervention. We need to see how it goes over the next few weeks.’

  ‘Are you saying she has to get worse before we can get help?’

  ‘Effectively yes, but the ideal is that she doesn’t get worse and that we can get her weight up and support her and this is, just as you say, a blip. I would advise that we get Lexi on the waiting list to see a therapist.’

  ‘What kind of therapist?’ She was aware she sounded dismissive and tried to counter it.

  ‘There are some very good ones locally. And her home feeding plan, combined with cognitive behavioural therapy, will hopefully get Lexi back to health.’