The Food of Love

by Amanda Prowse

  Oh, Lexi! I shouted at you.

  I watched as in the wake of my rant, your little face crumpled, the glasses fell off and your bottom lip stuck out. You dropped your chin to your chest and you howled! I’m sitting here crying as I write this. I shouted because I was tired and I shouldn’t have. It was all my fault and I am sorry.

  I think I will always be able to picture your face on that day. I wish I couldn’t.

  Freya put the pen down and reached for a tissue; blowing her nose and blotting her tears, she sat back in the chair.

  The front doorbell rang.

  Please, please just go away . . .

  FOURTEEN

  They had driven home in silence.

  And now, in the dark house, where shards of china sat on the floor, swept into the corner by a kind, helpful Charlotte, they observed the no-speaking rule, passing each other in the hallway, removing coats and filling glasses with water to soothe their throats, which were parched and sore from crying. The silence suggested Charlotte had gone out. Freya didn’t blame her; if she had a choice, she would be elsewhere too.

  It felt like they had been away for days and not merely the seven hours since they had slammed the front door shut.

  Freya would never forget how it felt, standing outside the heavy, locked internal door of the facility, where nothing she had learnt in all her years as a parent could possibly have prepared her for what lay ahead. It was unbearable to consider, and she suspected it always would be.

  ‘I don’t like being here when she is having to sleep in that place!’

  She spoke through gritted teeth. The words were meant as an affirmation, not a conversation starter. The last thing she wanted was to chat to her husband, chat to anyone. She wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all. Why Lexi? Why did this cruel disease have to pick her? She took her frustration out on Lockie, knowing it was unfair: he had made the tough decisions, the right decisions – but that didn’t make it any more palatable.

  The image of Lexi, with her skinny arm covered in its blond down, bent over in the bed, her thin hair covering her face as she tried to leave the mattress – by falling out, if necessary. And the nurses – one male, one female – restraining her, holding her down so they could sedate her before inserting the nasal gastric tube to feed her.

  ‘It’s okay, darling! It’s all going to be okay, Lexi, you just need to lie still, my darling!’ She had tried to calm her baby girl, hoping her words might somehow permeate. Her sobbing and her own desire to faint, however, actually did very little to help the situation.

  ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Lexi’s shrill, hoarse screams would haunt her dreams.

  ‘Don’t hurt her!’ she called to the nurses who had dealt with a hundred Lexis on a hundred different days, but that didn’t matter to Freya.

  ‘Lie down, Lexi!’ The male nurse did nothing to soften the instruction.

  ‘Mummy!’ her daughter called. ‘Mummy, please, help me! Mummy!’

  Lockie left the room, crying so hard she saw him reach twice for the handle, as if his vision were fogged. And then Lexi seemed to go floppy. Her emaciated form slumped back on the mattress as the sedation did its job.

  What came next was horrific, and was an image that now played on a loop in Freya’s mind. The little baby girl she brought into the world was held down while the male nurse tipped her head back and measured a length of tube, stretching it from her nose along her ear and then down to her stomach, before cutting it to size. He then placed it down her nose, pushing down her throat and into her stomach.

  Lexi used the last of her strength to resist; under the fog of drowsiness she managed to turn her head slowly from side to side, until this too became too difficult.

  The noise she made when not gagging reminded Freya of an injured fox she had once happened upon on Diana’s driveway. It had lain broken, making a sound that was part whimper, part scream, but beneath both, it sounded to her like a prayer for sweet release from its pain. It was while she was considering what to do for the best that the little thing went quiet, its prayer finally answered.

  Lexi held her gaze and continued to stare at her, wide-eyed, but now thankfully silent.

  Freya crept towards her and reached over, smoothing the hair from her forehead, careful not to snag the end of the tube that was now taped across her cheek, its little cap closed and digging into her cheekbone.

  The female nurse came close with a filled syringe between her fingers.

  ‘This will make you feel better, Lexi.’

  ‘Please . . .’ Lexi slurred, still gagging, her wizened hand lifting slightly on the mattress, reaching out towards her.

  ‘You have to let them make you better,’ Freya managed to say before being escorted from the room.

  ‘You can go straight back in the morning.’ Lockie stood by the dresser, pulling her back to the present, responding to a statement she had forgotten.

  Freya stared at him, feeling an unfamiliar flash of hatred for the man.

  ‘I expect you are happy, aren’t you? You didn’t even try to find an alternative!’ Her fingers balled into fists. ‘How do we know Larchcombe is the best place for her?’

  ‘What alternative? That’s what they offered us, Freya! And I am running short on alternatives and Lexi is running out of time! How can you say that? As if I could be happy! I am so sad I can barely function!’ he admitted. ‘She broke her little wrist.’ He shook his head. ‘Her bone so frail, it snapped. It’s too horrific to think about. I know that she needs more help than we can give her. She needs to be somewhere where there is no room for emotion or sentiment.’ He struggled to find the words. ‘It’s as if we love her too much to do the right thing. We don’t want to hurt her, it feels cruel, and so we give in to her, but that is not going to get her better.’

  ‘She hates me.’ Freya sobbed. ‘Oh, Lockie, she hates me!’

  Lockie wrapped his arms around her and rocked her gently. ‘No, she doesn’t, she loves you! When she says those things, it’s just her illness talking, it’s not her, remember? And sometimes we need to do what’s right, even if that means putting a chasm between her and us. It’s not easy, I know, but if she thinks she hates us and gets better, does it matter? It’s no longer about being liked. We are way past that.’

  ‘I wish I could go to sleep and wake up when it’s all over. I just want my little girl back!’ she howled.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He rubbed her back as he held her.

  ‘Hey.’ Charlotte’s voice surprised them. They turned to face their eldest, who stood with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy skin, her arms folded around her trunk. Her hair was pulled messily into a ponytail.

  ‘Charlotte, we didn’t know you were in.’ Lockie straightened, trying to find a semblance of normality for his daughter’s benefit.

  ‘Oh, darling! Have you been crying too?’ Freya freed herself from her husband’s grip.

  ‘A bit,’ Charlotte admitted, looking at the floor. They had called from Larchcombe and left a stilted message explaining the situation.

  ‘Don’t be too upset. Dad is right; she is in a place that will help her. They’ll get her to eat and then she can come home and we can start over.’

  She desperately wanted to believe this.

  Charlotte took a deep breath and folded her arms. ‘It’s partly that, but also . . .’ Freya watched her trying not to cry again, waving a hand in front of her face as if that might make a difference.

  ‘What is it, love?’ Lockie asked gently.

  ‘I didn’t get your message until this afternoon, and I didn’t know what was happening. There was no one to take me to the coach with my luggage. I didn’t know where everyone was, I tried calling . . .’

  ‘I left my phone here!’ Freya realised in that instant and felt quite sick at how she had let Charlotte down. Again.

  ‘Mine ran out of battery,’ Lockie confirmed. He balled his fingers into fists.

  ‘I was supposed to leave for my trip today. I thought about
getting a taxi, but then I figured it must be an emergency for everyone to just disappear like that. I mean, I know it was only good old Charlotte and her crappy trip, nothing important, but still . . .’ She took a breath. ‘I couldn’t get hold of anyone and I was really worried. I even called Gran, but she didn’t know what to do. It’s not her fault, though.’

  No, it’s mine . . . Freya swallowed. ‘Charlotte, I don’t know what to say, other than I am so sorry!’ I forgot you, my own daughter. What kind of mother does that? She stood and, with arms wide, went to hold her child. Charlotte stepped backwards out of reach; to be held by her mother was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘I called Mr Gordon and dropped out at the last minute. He was really mad, but it doesn’t matter.’ Charlotte shook her head as her tears fell, confirming to Freya what she knew already: that it actually mattered a lot.

  ‘I am so sorry. I feel sick.’ Lockie sighed.

  ‘Charlotte, we will make it up to you. I am sorry.’ Freya held out her hands to her daughter, who ignored the gesture.

  ‘Sure you will,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She turned and left them alone in the kitchen.

  Lockie slumped down on to a dining chair. ‘I can’t believe it. I completely forgot; her trip went clean out of my head.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Freya whispered, wanting to put as much distance between her and this terrible day as possible.

  Both silently noted the distinction between ‘bed’ and ‘sleep’, knowing that whilst they might lie in their bedroom through the night-time hours, there would be very little rest for either of them that night.

  Freya jolted on the mattress, the remnants of a dream lurking around the edges of her subconscious; she had been falling. A quick glance at the clock told her it was a little before 5 a.m. This was her hour of reckoning.

  It had always been this way; when preoccupied with worry, or struggling with a problem, this was the time the universe called her to action. No matter how long it was until daylight broke, or that the alarm wasn’t set, come 5 a.m. she was wide, wide awake.

  Freya crept from the bathroom and across the landing. She placed her fingers on Lexi’s door handle, but decided against entering, preferring instead to imagine her sleeping in her bed on the other side. Her tears fell; clearly the pretence wasn’t working. Her footfall was light, deliberate; the last thing she wanted at that time of day was for Lockie to jump up and join her. Knowing she would have to live in the tension-filled environment all day, she wanted this brief window of respite before he rose.

  She looked at Charlotte’s door and pictured her sweet eldest girl crying herself to sleep. Beautiful Charlotte, who was rightly angry and disappointed, her world crumbling because anorexia had knocked on the door of their house and left its mark.

  While the coffee machine warmed up, Freya wandered to the window in the den and looked down into the Rendletons’ kitchen. A lamp had been left on, presumably in case Mrs Rendleton strayed in the night, or in case of emergency. It made the place look homey, inviting, even at this, the stillest time of the day.

  Two mugs sat side by side on their table, and two piles of laundry, neatly folded and ready to be taken up and put away. Her eyes roamed up the side of their house, coming to rest on their bedroom window. She pictured them under a candlewick bedspread, spooning gently in their nightwear, him keeping her safe and her holding his arm, liking to feel him close in such bewildering times.

  Freya felt the stirring of something in her stomach; it felt like hunger, but was sharper, sour. She gasped when she recognised it as envy. For the briefest beat of time, she had wondered what it might feel like to have no children, to not have the worry, the desperate fretting that had accompanied every waking moment since walking from Mrs Janosik’s office.

  I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to think that!

  She closed her eyes, offering the silent prayer as she pictured her daughters, her beautiful girls, who had been her greatest gift and had brought her more joy than she had ever known possible.

  As she watched the dark-brown liquid flow into the little glass mug, she wondered what time she would be able to visit Lexi, wondered if she was asleep. She simultaneously tried to think of how to make things up to Charlotte, and tried not to think of the hundred and sixty-four quid that they might as well have shredded and used as confetti.

  Freya sat at the head of the table and opened her laptop. An email popped up from Marcia:

  Hello,

  Remember me? I’m the one who needs you to give me words that I can sell, so that you can eat and keep Lockie in crayons.

  Topics like FOOD? HEALTH?

  Any of this sounding familiar? Blink once for yes.

  M x

  P.S. I love you

  P.P.S. I’m only half joking (about the article, not the love thing) x

  Freya flexed her fingers and took a sip of her coffee. She wrote, typing furiously, without pause, venting her anger, thoughts and frustrations, bashing the keys without mercy, each stroke hard and aggressive, as she transferred her anger on to the screen, watching as her words formed an uncomfortable tapestry.

  ‘The Food of Love’

  I live on a strange planet where half of the inhabitants don’t have enough to eat and the other half have so much that they discard millions of tons of the stuff. How can that be right? I have been reminded that back in the day, eating was to provide fuel for work, a necessity of life as mundane as bathing or sleeping. Pleasurable, sure, but when did it become such an obsession?

  We are bombarded daily with adverts, images, ideas and offers, all urging us to eat more, eat better, eat different, eat cheaply, and then ironically the list of diets available to us to help balance the overconsumption are so varied and many that they are too numerous to list.

  Here’s an exercise: try to name six members of the current cabinet. Most people struggle after three. Now try naming me six diets. Easy, huh?

  As a food lover and writer, I can say that the eating, preparation and sourcing of food has been a lifelong pleasure. I believe that one of the greatest expressions of love is to cook for someone.

  For the last year, however, I have found myself hating not only food, but also the word itself.

  I live in a house where it has become taboo.

  I live in a house where anorexia has swept all of the joy associated with eating out of the door and in its place left an awkward dust that lingers on surfaces, tainting our everyday actions and yes, even tainting the food we place in our mouths.

  Freya paused, glancing at the fragments of china that sat in a heap by the counter in the corner.

  Anorexia has distorted my daughter’s perception. Her negative mental images have invaded every aspect of her life. Her constant analysis of fat content and calories, and her quest to deceive and starve, affect us all.

  It is as if we live in a hidden bunker, removed from all that we used to consider routine, normal. No days out, no friends, no shopping trips, no casual lunches, no movie nights, no laughter, no unity, no happiness.

  Anorexia is the enemy of all the above and I hate it with a passion.

  Her struggle has become our struggle.

  We are a family shattered, trying every day to hold together what is left.

  The physical effects are too horrible and too personal for me to recount; they haunt me and they always will. It is as if my little girl, with the body and face of an old, frail woman, is drowning in a sea of self-abuse. Every time I think I have a grip of her wrists, bracing myself to haul her up and into my arms, she is sucked under again and I lose her to something stronger and more powerful than me, stronger even than my love for her. I stand helpless, reaching out, as she is ripped from my grasp to float alone in the abyss.

  It must be lonely for her.

  It’s lonely for me, watching her sail off into the distance.

  Food is her sickness and food is her cure.

  And until someone can tell me how to break the conundrum I fear that thi
s living hell is where we will remain.

  The sun is rising as I write – a brand-new day, and another when I will look at my life, the cycle we are trapped in, wondering how food went from being the demonstration of love that bound us and became the enemy. And another when I can’t help but wonder where it might end.

  Freya pressed ‘Send’ and slammed her laptop shut.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  She turned to face Lockie. He looked dreadful. His dark stubble seemed to accentuate the unhealthy pallor to his skin. Two dark crescents sat beneath his puffy eyes, the telltale of the insomniac.

  ‘Did you get much sleep?’ he asked; they were both similarly obsessed by their mutual fatigue.

  ‘Not really.’ She coughed, her voice croaky and underused at this time of day.

  ‘What time can we go and see her?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten o’clock, they said, but I can call after eight to see how she is.’

  ‘I wish I could wind the clock back to this time yesterday.’ He sighed.

  She let a ripple of laughter escape her lips. ‘I wish I could turn the clock back to before this started, to whatever the catalyst was that wired her in this way.’

  ‘But we don’t know what or why.’

  ‘No, that’s right, Lockie, we don’t. Was it trying to keep her occupied by giving her a glossy magazine to look at on a plane, stuffed with pictures of stick-thin models? Was it poking her rounded tum in her little swimming costume, telling her she was adorable, like a fat puppy, whilst joking that she’d have to travel home in the hold of the plane? Was it me, monitoring my size, pinching an inch? God, I wish I knew. It is everywhere, Lockie, the messages, the pressure, the imagery, and I am as guilty as the next person for getting sucked into the whole horrible superficial carnival!’ She rubbed her eyes, instantly regretting her snipe, but she was in no mood to hear the obvious so casually stated, as if it was news. ‘I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I am not having a good day.’