The Food of Love

by Amanda Prowse

  She nodded, gulping the salty sobs that filled her throat.

  ‘Good.’ He sniffed, and made for the door. ‘Now we do it my way.’

  This sounded very much like a fait accompli. Freya watched as he walked past her with barely a glance. It was the first time she felt like he didn’t see her, didn’t want to see her, and her gut churned as she saw what others would see: a couple who were set apart, splintered.

  ‘Morning, darling! Up you get!’

  Freya woke to the sound of clapping and the command shouted from the hallway, not directed at her, but at Lexi, as Lockie stretched on the landing, sounding part holiday-camp entertainment officer and part army PT officer.

  Their bed had felt very small as they spent the night, with muscles coiled, lying on opposite sides of the mattress, both feigning then praying for sleep, their deceit given away by the loud swallows that they tried to suppress.

  ‘Two minutes!’ he bellowed. ‘And I shall meet you in the kitchen.’

  Freya sat up, and mixed with the desire to intervene, concern at his over-exuberance and volume that might unnerve their girl, was the slight flicker of relief that for now, at least, someone else seemed to be shouldering the responsibility, being the bad guy. She felt she could take her foot off the gas for the first time in forever.

  She took her time showering and slipping into her jeans and favourite long-sleeved red-and-white raglan T-shirt, then made her way down the stairs, kissing the newly risen Charlotte on the landing, who ambled from the loo back to her bedroom.

  Downstairs, Lexi sat at the head of the table, her hands clamped between her bony knees, sitting inside striped pyjamas that hung from her frame.

  ‘Good morning!’ Lockie beamed from the stove. ‘Take a seat and let me serve you.’

  ‘Have I woken up in an alternate universe?’ She smiled at her daughter, trying to smooth the morning, keeping things, as ever, as bright as possible, painting a picture for the kids, aware that this was what she did, but not knowing how to change without adding another layer of tension to an already almost intolerable situation.

  ‘Nope.’ Lockie ran to the fridge and back to the stove. She noticed he was wearing her Masterchef apron, a freebie she had received after writing about the series. It made her laugh.

  ‘I know you are laughing at my apron, but I think it’s nervous laughter. You don’t want me to steal your cooking crown.’ He cracked an egg into the sizzling skillet and splashed in some milk and a knob of butter.

  ‘Lockie, if it means you cooking all the meals, shopping for them, doing the dishes, and running up to the shop when we run out of milk, be my guest!’ She pulled a face at Lexi, who managed a half-smile.

  ‘Your coffee, madam!’ Lockie placed the little glass demitasse in front of her. He looked rather pleased with himself.

  ‘That coffee machine is easy once you get the hang of it. I will not be beaten by technology.’ He smiled, with his hands on his hips, a wooden spoon in one.

  ‘Toast is burning.’ She calmly nodded her head towards the wisp of smoke that curled from the toaster.

  ‘Argh!’ He dashed over and pinched his fingers on the blackened bread, touching it for the shortest possible time and flinging it on to the draining board.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad. I didn’t want toast anyway,’ Lexi confirmed.

  ‘Yes, but this is not about what you want, Lex, it’s about what you need!’ He smiled at her, his manner excited.

  Freya sipped her coffee, keeping her head down rather than make eye contact with Lexi, knowing to do so might inadvertently ally her with the negativity she could sense her daughter wanted to express.

  ‘Here we go. One very tiny plain omelette, cooked without oil. One slice of bacon, crisped under the grill to perfection. And one grilled tomato, lightly sprinkled with black pepper. Enjoy!’ He placed the small plate in front of her and twirled the dishcloth around with flourish.

  And then in an instant they were back in the familiar grip of anxiety, where no amount of glitter or bluster could detract from the fact that she and Lockie waited with breath held to see if Lexi would eat. It was like watching an injured marathon runner crawling towards the finish line, no one knowing if they would make it or simply give up and face-plant on to the tarmac.

  It was with a mixture of nervous anticipation and frustration that Freya’s jaw clenched, watching Lexi slowly, slowly, pick up the cutlery and methodically saw the strip of bacon into morsels before using the side of the fork to break down the omelette. She then let her wrist rest on the edge of the table, with the fork poised, and looked up at her mum.

  Freya knew a hungry Charlotte or a hurried Lockie would have eaten the food on the plate in the time it took for Lexi to prepare it to her liking for eating.

  ‘How is it?’ Lockie called from the sink.

  ‘Lovely,’ Lexi replied, and Freya knew that to an unknowing ear, this might sound like she had tasted it. Lexi let her eyes sweep her mother’s face, as if testing the water to see if she would rat on her.

  It was in that split second that Freya realised Lexi viewed her without threat, as someone who would not make a stand, as an enabler – and her heart flipped.

  Very slowly, Freya rose from the table and went to stand behind Lockie, all the time, silently willing, Go on! Eat it, Lex! Please!

  Lexi watched her mum’s retreat as she touched the outer tine of the fork to a single speck of crispy bacon. It stuck. She brought it up to her mouth, slow in the transfer; she brought it to her nose, smelling it first, then poked out her tongue.

  Freya watched as Lexi closed her eyes and, with her body rigid and her eyes screwed tightly shut, she touched the fork to her tongue, transferring the tiny dot of protein.

  Freya looked again into her coffee cup, swirling the reduced contents; anything other than witness the tortured struggle of her child trying to eat. She placed her free hand on Lockie’s shoulder. In response, he patted her fingers.

  Freya jolted when, without warning, the loud noise filled the room. Her coffee splashed from her mug as Lexi slammed her wrists against the table, her palms splayed, throwing the cutlery on to the china plate, as she pushed her chair back with force, scooting backwards while simultaneously spitting profusely. Long gobs of saliva fell from her mouth, over her chin and down her chest. Eventually she wiped her tongue repeatedly on the sleeve of her pyjama top, trying to rid her mouth of all traces. She was shaking her head.

  ‘Lexi!’ Lockie shouted. He sounded angry rather than concerned.

  Her response, which Freya would never forget, was explosive.

  Jumping up from the chair with an energy that had been absent of late, Lexi swiped the plate from the table with force. It landed on the floor, shattering and scattering the measly breakfast over the stripped wood, to lie among the china.

  ‘I won’t eat it! I won’t! And you can’t make me! I hate you! I fucking hate you! Both of you!’ She pointed from one parent to the other.

  For a second, Freya was paralysed, completely taken aback by the severity of her language and outburst. Gripping the countertop, she looked from Lexi to the floor and then her husband, whose expression was equally shocked, as he stood with mouth agape.

  Charlotte appeared at the door, standing behind her sister. ‘What’s all the racket?’

  Lexi rounded on her, eyes blazing, mouth set in a teeth-bearing sneer. ‘I don’t care what you want or what you say. You can’t make me do anything! You are trying to make me fat!’

  She turned her attention back to Lockie, her head darting, face muscles twitching. ‘You are not human. You are the devil! I can see it! I can see your fire! You are the devil!’ She pointed at her dad with a trembling finger and, without removing her eyes from his face, her expression blazing, she backed slowly out of the room and darted up the stairs.

  ‘Are you guys okay?’ Charlotte held one hand to her chest as she peered into the room, wary, unnerved.

  Freya nodded, not only shocked by Lexi’s outburst, but st
unned by her choice of words. I hate you! Both of you! It was her worst fears come true.

  ‘We’re okay.’ She caught her breath. ‘That wasn’t her, Lockie. You know that, don’t you? That wasn’t her.’ Her words were as much a reminder for herself.

  He looked at her. ‘I don’t know . . .’ he began.

  ‘Don’t know what?’ she prompted, waiting to hear the end of his sentence, guessing at what happened, how to make her eat, what to do next . . .

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ He paused. ‘How much more I can take.’

  His words sent a bolt of terror through her body. She wanted to stay and calm him, but her desire to check on Lexi was stronger. Once again, she felt like she was being pulled in two different directions.

  ‘I’m going to check she’s okay. She’ll need me.’ She spoke quickly, firmly, indicating that going to comfort her daughter was non-negotiable.

  Charlotte cried, quietly, as Lockie stared at his wife and she left the room without further comment.

  Freya cracked open Lexi’s bedroom door, finding it quite hard to accept the level of fear she felt at having to converse with her little girl. It was a situation she could never have imagined.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she whispered to her child, who now sat on the corner of her mattress, coiled against her wall with her right wrist resting on her left hand. Her eyes were bloodshot and red from sobbing.

  ‘Mummy?’ Her voice was unusually babyish, the other end of the spectrum to the vile, shrill outburst of earlier.

  ‘What is it, Lex?’ She took a step closer, her actions hesitant, nervous in case it was a ruse, in case she lost her temper again.

  ‘I think I’ve hurt myself!’ She lifted her right arm, supported by her other hand, and unfurled her legs on the mattress.

  Freya rushed forward and took one look at the limp, swollen limb. She was in little doubt that it was broken.

  ‘Oh God!’ she cried, pulling herself together. This was no time for tears. ‘We need to get you to the hospital.’

  ‘No, Mummy, please!’ she screamed. ‘Not hospital!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lexi, we have no choice.’ Her tone was one she had rarely used – assertive, unyielding – and it seemed to do the trick.

  Freya threw her zip-up fleece over Lexi’s shoulders and bundled her down the stairs, ignoring her shouts and the way she struggled to free herself from her mother’s grip. Lockie rushed forward. Freya knew the sight of his child in need sent all thoughts of what had occurred and been said from his mind; at that point he was only concerned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think her arm’s broken.’ Freya’s anguish was written on her face.

  ‘Get her into the car.’ He grabbed the keys and shepherded his wife and child down the stairs. ‘Charlotte!’ he called out. ‘Lexi has hurt her arm; we’ll be back as soon as we can!’

  ‘It’s fractured,’ the doctor confirmed, looking at an X-ray. ‘You can see here . . .’ He pointed to a hairline fracture. ‘We’ll pop you in a cast, Lexi, and that will do the job.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She nodded, looking more than a little ashamed and embarrassed at how her injury had occurred.

  ‘No problem.’ He smiled. ‘The nurse will take you off to get your cast applied and I am just going to have a word with Mum and Dad, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Sure.’ She stared at her parents, as if imploring them to keep her secrets; clearly regretting her outburst and her words of hate. Freya watched as Lexi’s frail, trembling body shuffled towards the door.

  The bearded young doctor closed the door behind Lexi and the nurse, and sat back down. ‘I am worried about Lexi’s general health.’

  ‘I know, we are too.’ Freya thought it easier to cut to the chase.

  ‘I’m sure. We know her heart is suffering and hand in hand with that is an electrolyte imbalance, but it’s the bone loss that’s worrying me. She should be accruing bone at this stage of her development but she’s actually losing it.’

  ‘Osteoporosis.’ Freya had read up. Her gut churned; it was one thing to read about the symptoms on a page, quite another to hear it applied to her little girl.

  He nodded. ‘Her deprivation can also affect her brain function; she is at risk of seizures, hallucination, disordered thinking.’

  Freya and Lockie exchanged a glance.

  ‘And we need to keep an eye on her liver.’

  Freya placed her hand over her mouth. It was as if they were talking about someone else: bone loss, liver trouble . . . this was her baby girl’s body!

  ‘Good Lord!’ Lockie spoke aloud, clasping his fists under his chin, as if in prayer.

  ‘I can only imagine how hard this is to hear.’ The doctor spoke with a warm sense of understanding.

  ‘She . . .’ Freya began. ‘She had a kind of episode earlier, when she broke her wrist. It must have happened when she hit the table and thumped her plate on to the floor.’ She swallowed; this wasn’t easy to recall, and even less so to share with a stranger. She avoided Lockie’s gaze, feeling at some level that if he hadn’t pushed Lexi this would never have happened. The sound of his chirpy instruction, his clapping, to wake their child from the landing, played in her head on a loop. ‘It was like it wasn’t her. She was spitting and called us the devil. She swore and said she could see our fire.’ Her voice broke. ‘It was horrible. Our little girl! To see her like that!’

  Lockie reached for her hand and held it fast on his lap. It was an almost instinctive reaction; this was what they did: held hands, united. Today, however, her hand sat limply inside his, as she fought the feeling of resentment that swirled in her mind.

  ‘We weighed her as well . . .’ The doctor paused. ‘And she registered a weight a shade under seventy-three pounds.’

  ‘She can’t be!’ Freya shook her head. This was the hardest thing to hear.

  ‘She is,’ he repeated softly, looking to Lockie, as if seeking support.

  They sat in silence. Freya pictured the number of times she had urged her to eat, pictured the arguments, the sleepless nights, the trudging up and down the stairs, the constant, wearying battle, all for nothing . . .

  Eventually Lockie spoke up for the two of them: ‘What do we do now? How do we make her better?’

  Freya knew he was unaware of just how hard he gripped her fingers. She removed her hand from his.

  The doctor took a deep breath. ‘I know you have tried hard at home, and I can see that Lexi’s illness is taking its toll, not only on her health but yours as well. It’s a very stressful, difficult thing to live with, for you all. Do you have other children?’

  ‘Yes.’ Freya nodded. ‘Charlotte, Lexi’s older sister.’

  ‘It can’t be easy for her,’ he observed.

  Freya nodded at the unpalatable truth.

  ‘I think it’s best for Lexi if we get her admitted as an in-patient to a facility that can treat her,’ continued the doctor. ‘Larchcombe House. They will work on getting her weight up and getting her out of immediate danger.’

  Freya sat forward. ‘She’s in danger right now, isn’t she?’ Her words squeaked.

  ‘Yes, she is.’ He confirmed what she already knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

  ‘You have to do what is necessary.’ Lockie picked up the reins.

  ‘Oh, Lockie!’ she breathed. ‘Are we sure it’s the best thing for her? Lexi doesn’t want to go away, we know that . . .’ She was aware that her words, distorted through her tears, sounded like begging. But whilst it was a necessary step, a small part of her wanted Lexi to know that she had fought her corner, no matter how destructive the path. I’m on your side, Lex, always!

  Lockie’s tone was resolute and angry. ‘This is no longer about what Lexi wants. This is exactly what we discussed last night. It is all about what she needs, and she needs to be where they can feed her – without quibbling, or refusing the wrong kind of tuna!’ He sounded exasperated. ‘And it’s no longer about what you want or what I want
.’

  Freya put her face in her hands and wept.

  Three hours . . .

  Brewster miaowed and climbed up into the warmth of her lap.

  Freya looked at the clock above the fireplace. One hundred and eighty minutes to go: that was all.

  She shivered and stood; holding Brewster, she reached for the mohair blanket and placed it around her shoulders as a shawl. Lexi’s lingering scent brought instant comfort.

  ‘You snuggle down and go to sleep, Brewster. That’s a good boy.’ She ran her palm over the length of his soft back and smiled.

  ‘Mum, I wrote this.’

  Charlotte walked in and placed the sheet on the desk, smoothing Brewster’s head before leaving the room.

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ She let her eyes rove over the sweet words written from one sister to another and she smiled.

  Freya picked up the pen:

  There have been times in your life, Lexi, when I have done things that I bitterly regret.

  Freya paused and closed her eyes, breathing in and out slowly, trying to calm her flustered pulse before resuming.

  When you were little, you decided to play on my computer; what happened was my fault entirely, for not properly saving my work before nipping to the loo. I then became distracted by laundry and was gone for a good ten minutes.

  By the time I came back into the kitchen, Dad and Charlotte were watching TV and you were sat in the chair I had vacated, tip-tapping into the keyboard, wearing my glasses askew on your tiny nose, your little fingers hitting the keys randomly, and you were nodding your head, as if deep in thought.

  I laughed, and you turned around, informing me that you were working.

  I remembered the four hours of work that I had left unattended. We never did find them, to this day – those words, ideas, sentences, wrung from me with thought and deliberation. I have no idea how you managed to make them disappear! Trouble was, you had no idea how you did it either, and so the chances of recovering them were very slim.