Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

  “My head hurts.”

  She took the water bottle from him. “You just took Advil.”

  “I’m whining.”

  “You have a man-cold.”

  Patrick sat up higher on the bed, against the wall, and pulled the blanket up around him. “Can I have coffee?”

  “Yes.” Marianne hopped up and ran to the kitchen. This was the best, most wonderful day ever. Finally, she got to be the one to do the rescuing. She was going to smother him with all her care. She came back a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. “Do you want more toast?”

  Patrick shook his head and shivered into his blanket. “You shouldn’t be here. You’ll get sick, too.”

  Marianne sat down in the office chair and rolled over near his head, handing him his coffee. “Patrick,” she said seriously. “I think it’s a little late to worry about that. I’m sure I caught all your cooties last night in the truck.” Ahem.

  “Sorry,” said Patrick.

  Marianne smiled. “You wanna watch a movie?”

  He nodded pitifully. Marianne put on The Wrath of Khan, and Patrick fell asleep again immediately. He was shivering, though, so she put a heating pad under his feet.

  Toward the end of the movie, Patrick woke up with an especially severe coughing attack. Marianne had to leave and go to the drugstore for cough drops. When she got back, he seemed better than he had all day. He was sitting up in bed doodling on his skateboard with a sharpie. There was even a new DVD going in the player.

  Marianne pulled off her boots and crawled onto the bed, sitting back against the wall facing his knees. Patrick had drawn an ornate skull surrounded with roses on the bottom of his board. “Aw,” said Marianne. “Is that your girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty, huh?”

  Marianne stretched her leg out and caught the cord of the heating pad between her toes. Patrick wasn’t using it anymore, so she pulled it up under her own feet. “What are you watching? It’s disgusting.”

  “A History of Britain,” said Patrick around his cough drop. It made a clinking sound against his teeth when he talked.

  The documentary flashed images of medieval knights and clergymen, and spoke of some poor guy getting stabbed in the head and having his brains smeared on the floor of a cathedral. Marianne glanced over at Patrick to comment on his taste in TV, but he spoke first. “You can change it if you want.”

  “What?” said Marianne, suddenly not wanting to seem too stupid for an academic show. “I like Plantagenets and Archbishops and...” Marianne glanced back at the TV and wrinkled her nose. “And goat hair shirts with lice crawling in them.”

  “It is pretty gross,” mumbled Patrick. He wasn’t really watching; he was drawing a banner along the bottom of the skull.

  “Why would that guy wear that under his clothes?” Marianne unwrapped a cough drop and stuck it in her mouth.

  Patrick looked up at Marianne. “Does your throat hurt?”

  “No. I’m just hungry and too lazy to get up.” Marianne balled up the little wrapper and stuck it in her pocket. “So was that guy, Thomas Beckett, into self-mutilation or what?”

  Patrick squinted at the TV. “Uh... more like self-mortification. The rough fabric would rub the skin raw; a kind of perpetual penance for his sins.”

  “How holy of him,” said Marianne. “Medieval people had the stupidest ideas.”

  “It’s not a medieval idea,” said Patrick, doodling again. “People naturally do it to themselves all the time, they just don’t use hair shirts anymore. Well, some still do. The Carthusian Monks still wear them. And they lash themselves with whips during the penitential seasons.”

  “You read too much. You’re making me feel stupid.” Marianne looked down at Patrick’s drawing and started laughing. “That is so mean.” He’d sketched out her name in Old English lettering in the banner under the skull.

  Patrick capped the marker and put it down on the table. “I’m hungry now, too.”

  Marianne made Patrick dinner while he took a shower. She was just flipping the grilled cheese sandwich in the frying pan when Danielle and the family came home from the park.

  “Yo,” said Michael. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped off the cap with the opener on his key chain. “You’re still here.”

  “Yup, I’m still here.” Marianne held out her hand for his cap, and he tossed it to her. She dropped it into the open trashcan right by her. “I don’t run from the place like you do.”

  “Uh...” Michael got visibly flustered. Poor guy. He was a hundred and ninety pounds of walking guilt. Marianne always chalked it up to having an unbelievably judgmental wife.

  “I was just kidding, Michael.” She smiled timidly at him; he liked her best when she looked timid. “Everyone needs to get out of their own house for a while. That’s why I’m here so much.”

  “Right, right.” Michael was staring distractedly at the tile across the room. He wasn’t listening to Marianne or her gentle comfort measures at all. “Where’s Patrick? I wanna show him the new tank for my bike before it gets dark.”

  Marianne reached up for a plate on a high shelf and turned around. “In the shower.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows at her. “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged uncomfortably and almost chuckled to himself. “Nothin. Just, you know... you guys are alone here... taking showers... I don’t know.”

  Marianne blinked at him. “I wasn’t in there with him or anything.”

  Danielle walked in the kitchen then and read her husband’s awkward demeanor inside of a nanosecond. “What’s going on? Where’s Patrick? What did you do, Marianne? Is the dog dead?”

  “No. Geez, relax.” Marianne flipped the sandwich. “Nothing’s going on.”

  Danielle turned her psychic eyes to her husband.

  Michael put his hands up in surrender. “I was just trying to figure out what was going on here while we were gone.”

  Danielle’s jaw fell open with an audible pop. “Were you guys doing it?”

  “NO!” Marianne pointed accusingly at Michael. “Patrick’s in the shower and he thought it was weird. It’s not weird. Nothing’s going on.”

  Danielle turned to her husband.

  He shrugged innocently. “Hey, he’s in the shower. She looks kinda nervous. What was I supposed to think?”

  “I don’t look nervous!” Marianne turned to Danielle. “Do I?”

  Danielle cocked her head to the side. “I don’t know. Your hair’s all messed up. Your sweater’s buttoned wrong.” She turned and nodded at Michael. “Yeah. Good call.”

  He winked at his wife and then looked at Marianne and almost jumped backward. She may have been staring him down. “Hey,” said Michael. “I’m just looking out for you.” He gestured with his thumb toward his wife. “You gotta be careful or you’ll end up with six kids like her.”

  Danielle looked surprisingly calm. “Take it back, my love. Take it back now.”

  “I mean us,” said Michael quickly. “We have six kids. I just meant that you gotta be careful with showers, is all. Danielle can tell you.”

  “Are you saying I have a thing for the shower?” said Danielle.

  “Hey,” said Michael, shrugging. “It’s the only time I don’t smell. I don’t blame you.”

  Marianne really wanted to cover her ears, but she didn’t want to be rude. She put the sandwich on a plate and put the pan in the sink.

  “Geez, Mike,” said Danielle. “Marianne’s gonna go hop in with Patrick just to get away from you and your smelly pillow talk.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Michael grimaced. “Hey, I didn’t mean to call out your inner feelings, or nothin.”

  Marianne shuddered but didn’t answer. She just grabbed the plate and ran from the room. Married people were sometimes so inconsiderate of the virgin ears of virgin girls. The old ladies at church were the worst, though. Marianne used to help cook at the potlucks till some ancient widow had kindly educated her about what
style of lingerie to buy when she was married.

  “Make sure you get a nightie with a fur-lined hem; it’ll keep your neck warm.”

  Look of horror.

  Self-satisfied snicker.

  Marianne pulled herself away from the traumatic memory and opened the door to Patrick’s bedroom. “Gah!” she screamed and bolted in the other direction, almost ramming into the wall behind her.

  “What?” said Patrick, opening the door fully and sticking his head out.

  Marianne stood in the hall with her eyes tightly squinted. “Are you dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  She opened her eyes and quickly shut them again.

  “Well, mostly,” he said. He was wearing pajama pants, but no shirt. She’d seen skin, and that had been enough to spook her. Patrick laughed at her. “Okay, the shirt’s on, now. What’s wrong?”

  Marianne kept her eyes shut. “Michael’s been schooling me in shower sex,” she whimpered.

  “Oh, come on, dude!” yelled Patrick in his scratchy sick voice.

  “Sorry,” Michael shouted back.

  Marianne opened her eyes, and Patrick was shaking his head at her. “She doesn’t even know what a condom looks like. Leave her alone.”

  “What?” yelled Danielle. “Get her back in here. We need to have a talk.”

  Marianne covered her face with her free hand. “Another time, maybe.”

  “Fine,” said Danielle. “Just don’t come crying to me when you find out you’ve got Patrick’s spawn sucking the life out of your uterus.”

  “Oh, man.” Patrick grabbed Marianne by the arm and pulled her into his room. He pushed her into the chair and headed for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Marianne exhaled. “The scary images will fade soon enough.”

  “You sure? Just give me a few minutes; she’ll never bother you again.”

  Marianne put her feet up on the edge of the bed and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Puh-lease. Not even you can reign in Danielle.”

  Patrick looked offended. “Marianne, I have two very convincing arguments. They never fail me.”

  She smiled. “Let’s hear them.”

  He held up one fist and stared at it. Then he held up the other and stared at that one.

  She laughed and held out Patrick’s plate to him. “Very persuasive.”

  “Thank you.” He took the plate from her. “Did you eat?”

  “Yes.” Wait a sec. No, she didn’t. That was a weird lie, totally unpremeditated.

  “What?” said Patrick.

  “Um...” Marianne looked up at him and wrinkled her nose. “Actually, I didn’t eat. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Patrick smiled at her and offered the plate back.

  “No. I’ll get something from the kitchen.” She shook her head and walked out of the room. She went partway down the hall and came back. She leaned her head in. “That was a weird thing to say, huh? Why did I do that?”

  Patrick thought for a second. “Maybe you forgot.”

  Marianne stared out the window. “Yeah.” Then she focused her eyes on Patrick. “What am I asking you for, anyway?”

  Patrick pushed a pair of imaginary eyeglasses up farther on his nose. “Because I know everything.”

  She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. “You know, you’re kind of weird. You’re a thug on the outside and an honor roll student on the inside. I think that—”

  “Go eat.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Marianne popped up and went to the kitchen. She got three pieces of cold pizza and a diet soda from the fridge. And she grabbed a bag of circus animal cookies, too. She’d been perfect, perfect, on her diet all week. Marianne ate her pizza from her swivel chair and heckled Patrick’s wretched video until Danielle came to the door and asked her to babysit.

  “They’re already in bed, but sicky over there is always scared that Monkey will wake up. You’ll stay, right?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Danielle spotted the cookie bag on Marianne’s lap. “Ooh, I want one.” She had hawk eyes, even though no lights were on in the room except the TV.

  Marianne looked down and picked up the bag... What the? At least half of what had been there was gone now. Marianne felt as if she had lost time. Just jumped right over a tiny portion of her life. How many had she eaten? She had no memory of eating at all. The demon clutched her around the throat. Marianne smiled and handed the cookies to Danielle. Oh no, please, not now. Today was a good day. She was allowed to cheat. It couldn’t even properly be called cheating if she was allowed.

  “Thanks.” Danielle tossed the bag back to Marianne and left. Marianne folded the plastic over and hugged the bag onto her chest. Go away. Go away.

  “Hey, Cookie,” said Patrick. “You look sick.”

  She clenched her jaw to keep herself from shouting at him not to call her Cookie. She smiled at him and shook her head fiercely. “I’m good.”

  Patrick reached over and tapped her under the chin. “You’re so pretty.”

  “No, you are.”

  “No, you are.”

  “No, you are.”

  “No, you are.”

  “Okay, then,” said Marianne. “I am.”

  Patrick leaned back against the wall, but held her hand on the arm of her chair. He pointed toward the bag in her arms. “All done?”

  Did he think she’d overdone it? Why had he called her Cookie? Why was he so obsessed with the stinking cookies? Marianne nodded, but tried to keep very still otherwise. She could keep her panic a secret if she kept from moving. It was as if she had all her anxiety locked up behind a very delicate door. If she opened that door even a bit—if she let her body fidget at all—then it would all come spilling out. And she wasn’t going to ruin tonight by letting it spill out. She wasn’t going to get up. She wasn’t going to throw up her food tonight. It had been a long time since she’d let herself stay full, but she could do it.

  Patrick took the bag from her and set it on the nightstand. Every second that passed on the TV, every line of narration took three times as long as it should have. And for the first time, she wanted Patrick to stop touching her. His hand around hers was almost as irritating as the pulsing ache in her chest. She couldn’t think of anything except how to get alone. Not alone so that she could throw up, but just to be alone.

  The sounds from the TV were like jarring blasts in her ears. Patrick might as well have been pinching her. This wasn’t right. She told herself that she was being stupid. That she was fine. The TV was fine. Patrick was fine.

  Nope.

  She just couldn’t get over herself. What the hell was wrong with her? Marianne thought the words then. The words she never thought she would think... You have a problem. She blinked and tried to focus on the movie. Then she thought them again. You have a problem.

  No way. She was being melodramatic. Eating disorders didn’t come out of nowhere. They came out of traumas. They came out of abuse. No, this was biological. That was it. She’d been keeping her stomach empty lately and purging if she didn’t. It was just a biological reaction. Her body was simply unused to the feeling of being full. Great. Wonderful. She could deal with that. She could deal with biology. She could win, too. She was strong enough not to eat, no matter how hungry she was. She could be strong enough to keep from puking, too. Go to hell, bodily reaction. Marianne was not going to submit.

  Patrick sighed heavily at her side.

  “What is it?” asked Marianne.

  “I just don’t want to leave again tomorrow,” he said. “I have to go at noon.”

  “Your boss will understand if you’re too sick to drive. Right?”

  Patrick turned to her and smiled. “I’m fine to drive. I just don’t want to leave you again.”

  Marianne smiled down at her lap and tried not to be disgusted with herself for wishing that he would just go now. His presence was still pinching her. She told biology to go to hell again and smiled at him. “I�
��m going to miss you.”

  Patrick slouched down further on the bed and reached up to fiddle with Marianne’s hair while he focused on the TV again. She wanted to feel as cozy as Patrick looked. The gentle choking kind of ruined it for her, though. Marianne watched Patrick’s face.

  She felt like she had to do something; she just didn’t know what. She didn’t have to puke. Puking held no power over her. But she had to do something. She couldn’t just stay here and do nothing. It was like there were too many people in the room. There was Marianne. And Patrick. And the other Marianne. That was it. That was the demonic presence in the room. She felt like her true self for the first time in weeks. She’d felt it at moments, but nothing like how it was now. She had almost forgotten what it was like to know who she really was. Weak. Broken. Flawed. She had vowed never to lose control with food again. Marianne had broken faith with herself.

  She felt like crap. She was crap, and she would continue to be that. For days and years, she would feel like this. Humans had to deal with food every day. Every day of her life would be a battle not to spit on her vow. Like a housewife who one day bends down to start the dishwasher and realizes that the job isn’t done. It’s done for today. But she’ll have to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Almost every single day that she’s alive would include doing dishes.

  The battle not to eat till she was full would be there every day. She wasn’t strong enough to kill the desire with any permanence. What if one day... she gave up? Decided that it was too hard? She’d get fat. But, really, she didn’t care too much about that. Okay, of course she cared. More than that, though, was the idea of the defeat that was coming. She didn’t want to experience that day. Who would she be if she gave up? She would be everything else that she already was, but with no victory in her life at all. Marianne was sure, more sure than ever, that she didn’t have an eating disorder. She had a self-disorder.

  She looked up at Patrick and wondered why he hadn’t said it today. He could just look over right now and tell her that he loved her. Please. She watched him play with her hair and chew on his pretty bottom lip. Please. But he wasn’t going to do it. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by saying it again and again. She never said it back, after all.