Holding Out for a Zero

by Wardell, Heather

  Jaimi hasn’t contacted me since I quit, so all the energy I put into her career must not have meant anything to her. Andy promised he’d call me again and he didn’t, and Remy hasn’t been in touch and neither has Mara, although given how all those relationships ended that isn’t a surprise.

  And that’s my point, really: people can be in your life one day and gone the next, and maybe you deserve that and maybe you don’t but it doesn’t matter anyhow because you can never control it. You can’t control anything in life.

  Except what you eat. I don’t know why, but having an empty stomach makes me feel full and safe. Denying myself food doesn’t feel like denial, it feels good. I’m strong enough to resist what my body needs, and that means I’m strong enough to handle the world.

  Whenever I have to go out and face it.

  Which won’t be for a good long time.

  When I wake up on Tuesday, I know today is certainly not that day. Even before my eyes are fully open I’m filled with dread and sadness, and I don’t need to check my phone’s calendar to know what day it is.

  June 30th.

  The twentieth anniversary of Anthony’s death.

  Every year since it happened I’ve stayed alone that day, locking myself in my room when I still lived with my parents and taking it off work after that, and thought about Anthony. Anthony, and how I killed him. My parents go to his grave every year, but I never went with them because I knew they wouldn’t want me there. I knew I could never do enough to punish myself for what I’d done, but at least being alone and dwelling on it was something.

  This year, though, everything is different. And yet it’s not. I didn’t kill Anthony, but he’s still dead. My parents, who have no doubt also thought of me with hatred every year just as I have, are probably blaming me right now, but telling them the truth would destroy them all over again.

  Maybe.

  The only thing I know for sure is that they don’t want to see me today and I don’t want to see them.

  Although, why pick on today? They haven’t wanted to see me for twenty years. How could they? Looking at me is and will forever be a reminder of the son they lost because of me, or so they think, and now also a reminder of the daughter they’d preferred who is also gone forever.

  The daughter who’d really killed the son.

  I have nothing in my life. I have no friends, no job, no siblings. I barely have parents. Every day hurts, and there’s no chance that’s going to change. Everything I’ve done in my life, all my attempts to hold things together and make things right, it’s all led me here, to this point where I have nothing.

  I roll over to tighten the blankets around me, because at least they’re willing to hug me, and spot the huge bottle of sleeping pills on my bedside table.

  I have those.

  They could take me away from all this.

  I wait for shock at the idea of killing myself to rush in.

  It doesn’t.

  Instead, ending my life feels like the logical next move.

  I’ve reached zero in size and zero in connections to a world that wouldn’t even notice if I were gone. If I have nothing in my life, and I don’t, then why continue it?

  I can’t think of an answer that doesn’t lead directly to me swallowing all those pills.

  But one thing stops me.

  This is the anniversary of Anthony’s death. If I die today my parents will be forced to remember me on the same day as they remember him and I know they won’t want to do that, and besides it’s not fair to Anthony.

  So I choke down only two pills, then close my eyes and wait for tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I feel no different the next morning, so I sit up to go get water for the pills but my phone’s blinking notification light catches my eye. There’s a new email in there, the first email I’ve received in as long as I can remember.

  I tell myself I don’t care, but I know I’m lying. Someone wanted to contact me and I want to know who it was.

  Sure it’s probably just junk mail, I pick up the phone and check.

  Dear Valerie,

  I’m emailing because I don’t think you’d take my call.

  I wouldn’t take it, if I were you. You told me something big and scary and I bolted. I think now maybe I know how you felt after I showed you that painting. Maybe we felt the same way - like staying there in front of something we couldn’t accept was too much to take.

  I went straight back to the studio after our coffee and looked at the painting again. I looked for ages. I’d thought Gloria was reaching down to rescue Anthony but I see now she was dropping the balloons after taking them from the mantel. You’re right, and you’re not a monster. I should never have said that.

  I hate that Gloria did that to you, but it does fit with how unhappy she was lately. I think she made the painting for you, so she could show it to you and admit what happened and tell you how sorry she was. Though I know it was horrible for you to see it, I’m glad she did it because at least now you know the truth. I have all of her paintings in my apartment now, and you can have any or all that you want. I hope maybe you can come to forgive her someday.

  And forgive me. For not telling you about the painting before, for running away, and for earlier too, for that night we went out for dinner and you didn’t know I’m gay. I should have told you before then so things wouldn’t have gotten awkward, but the thing is that my family handled it so badly I was afraid to tell you, with everything else that was going on, when I didn’t know how you’d react. I’d tell you it’s hard to have your family ripped apart like that but I know you know. I was scared, I guess, that you would hate me for it too.

  Anyhow, I’m rambling, and what I really want to say is how sorry I am. I know you’re not eating, and I feel terrible. I thought you were too skinny at Gloria’s funeral, and even more so at the coffee shop, and me being gay and having to shoot you down might have contributed to that. Then upsetting you with the painting probably pushed you further in that direction and I hate myself for that too. I think I’m responsible for everything falling apart for you and I am so so sorry.

  If you are willing to call me or see me, or even email me back, I’d love it. I want a chance to fix the mess I’ve made of things for you. If you won’t, I understand, but I hope you will.

  Remy

  I read this twice, then shut off the phone with a sharp smack at the power button. Some ego, assuming everything that goes wrong in my life is because of him. How stupid is he to think my screwed-up life is his responsibility?

  I feel like I’ve been smacked instead of the phone.

  How stupid is he?

  How stupid am I?

  I look down at the phone in my hand but see my hand instead, all the bones in it and my wrist standing out in sharp relief. I’m a skeleton covered in skin. There’s no substance to me, just as there’s no substance to my life.

  The phone slips out of my hand onto the bedside table. I can’t deny what I’m seeing any more. Things are very wrong. And I did this to myself. All of it. I locked myself into this bony prison.

  And why?

  Because I made Gloria’s assault my responsibility. I took on a goal that had nothing to do with her to feel like I could do something, and I’ve continued doing that something even now that she’s gone and I’m probably not far behind given how awful I feel every day.

  And before that I made Anthony’s death my responsibility. Even if I had been the one to drop the balloon, it was an accident. A horrible one, but an accident. I couldn’t accept that, so I took the blame on myself, the blame and the responsibility. I locked up every aspect of my life to prevent another accident.

  But of course that didn’t work. Accidents don’t care who’s to blame, and they happen no matter how responsible you are.

  I couldn’t let myself see that, though, or I’d have to also see that the world is full of random events and that sometimes bad things happen no matter how careful you are.

&n
bsp; Instead, I took on all the responsibility so I could delude myself that I could have all the security I wanted and needed.

  And when anyone tried to take a bit of that responsibility from me, like Mara and Nico had done, I shoved them away to protect my security.

  All because I wanted control.

  Well, I have it all right.

  And it sucks.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I flush the sleeping pills, every last one of them, down the toilet like I did with the pizza my parents brought when I went through Gloria’s things, and for the same reason: so I won’t slip and do something I don’t want to do. Remy knew Gloria better than anyone, and accepting the meaning of the painting must have been incredibly hard for him. If I end my life now, it’ll leave him with all the guilt and responsibility he doesn’t deserve and I can’t do that to him knowing how bad it’s been for me. Protecting him from that pain feels like something worth living for.

  I don’t answer him that night, though, because I’m not sure what to say, and I don’t answer the next day or the next either. But on the evening of July 4th, exhausted from not sleeping, I do reach out to someone who deserves it.

  “Oh, Valerie.”

  Mara’s voice is cool with a hint of annoyance, but I make myself keep going. “How are you? How was your wedding?” Without waiting for a response, because her response might be hanging up on me, I go on with, “I was hoping maybe we could talk for a minute?”

  She sighs. “Go ahead. But I’ve only got one minute.”

  Not exactly encouraging, but I take a deep breath and say, “Okay, thank you. I…” My mind goes blank, but I manage to babble out how I know she’d been trying to help me and that even though I hadn’t thought I needed her help back then I do appreciate what she’d done.

  When I fall silent, she sighs again. “Okay. What do you want me to do now?”

  “I… I need a friend,” I say, feeling my throat tighten at the truth of it. “I don’t have anyone in my life, and I’m scared. I— wait, not scared.” Where had that come from? “Not scared, just… alone, and I… I….”

  “We gotta go, Mara!” I hear come through the phone from a distant man. “Hurry it up.”

  “Hold on,” she snaps, then to me she says, “Valerie, I can’t. You said some pretty unforgivable things to me, and I… well, I don’t trust you. I hope you’ll be okay, I really do, but I can’t get involved. You need help, and way more than I can give you. I’m sorry.”

  Then she hangs up.

  I sit holding the dead phone for a long time, then drop it onto the couch. So much for that. So much for reaching out, for trying to trust people. It doesn’t work. I can’t control their reactions, and I can’t cope with them either. She heard what I said and left me all alone.

  I curl up into a ball and lie staring at the photo of Gloria and a grown-up Anthony. All alone with my ghosts. Neither of their deaths were my fault, and I hate that. I shouldn’t, but I do, because if they were I could logically blame myself for them. I am blaming myself, but I wasn’t responsible.

  I told Mara I was scared. It came out without thought, but it was true, and it’s even more true now that I’m thinking about it. I’m terrified. I can’t eat.

  As soon as that idea appears in my mind, I reject it. Of course I can. I just haven’t. But I’ll get up right now and fix myself some soup, one of those cans Andy left in the top corner of the kitchen cupboard, to prove I can eat real food.

  In the kitchen I glance at the remaining pieces of yesterday’s meal replacement bar, realizing with discomfort that I’ve only eaten one-eighth of it, then look away. That’s not real food. Canned soup might not count either, but at least it’s closer.

  I don’t think I can handle the beef stew with its rich gravy after not eating much for so long, and chicken noodle reminds me too much of when I was a kid and had a terrible cold and Mom spooned it into me while I lay exhausted on the couch. I haven’t felt that kind of care and attention from her since Anthony died, and even the memory of the taste of the salty broth makes me want to cry.

  Tomato soup it is, then. I dump out the can into a saucepan then realize I have no milk so I pour in a can of water. I stir as I heat it up, watching as the globs of soup mix themselves with the water so it all looks smooth, and it occurs to me that once it’s mixed there’s no way I could un-mix it. In soup, as in life, some things can’t be undone.

  I roll my eyes at my own ever-so-deep thought and that makes me smile, so when the soup is ready I feel pretty good about my mental state. But as I fill a bowl my hands start to shake, and once I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the soup before me I can’t make myself let the first spoonful in. I lean over and smell it, hoping that’ll help, but though my stomach gives a weak growl my mouth still won’t open.

  I can’t do it. I have nothing left but the diet and I can’t break it even now that I want to.

  I leave the soup on the table and slump onto the couch under a blanket. I’m out of reasons, out of excuses. I eat at most one meal replacement bar a day, which I have to cut into pieces because I can’t stomach even such a small thing in one sitting. I spend hours at a time in the apartment staring blankly at the walls because I don’t have the energy to do anything else. I’m lightheaded whenever I get up and cold all the time because I’ve lost all my protective fat. And I can’t deny that all of this is anything but being out of control.

  Everyone else has been right. I’ve been wrong. I do need help.

  But where the hell am I supposed to get it when I have nobody in my life?

  Chapter Forty

  Some perverse instinct made me wear the dress I’d bought to prove I was a size zero, and the black fabric flaps around my legs in the brisk wind as I stand outside a building I’d never expected to enter. I wrap my thick cardigan tighter around me despite the warmth of the morning sun and make my way inside then take the elevator to the frosted glass door on the third floor.

  My hand shaking, I open the door and find myself in a tastefully decorated office with a rich oak floor. Remembering how Nico had admired the floors in my apartment, I assume he chose this one.

  “Hi,” I say, approaching the young receptionist, probably a size eight. “I have an appointment with—”

  “Dr. Melton,” she says calmly. “Yes. She’ll be ready for you in one minute, Ms. Malloy.”

  I take a seat, surprised she knows who I am but guessing that maybe arriving at work to a voicemail message begging for an appointment at a time when Dr. Hendrickson won’t be in the office isn’t typical for her.

  I’d stayed awake until nearly three in the morning, overwhelmed by realizing that I simply couldn’t eat the soup though I knew I needed to, struggling to figure out what to do. I could have called Nico, and I nearly did, but after the way I’d treated him I was afraid he wouldn’t answer and I couldn’t face that.

  But thinking of him made me think of his office partner who dealt with eating disorders, and though those two words still made me feel sick and angry I had to admit that my eating was anything but orderly, so before I could back out I’d called their office number and left a message.

  After leaving the message I went online to research how the doctor would treat me, and it’s good I did it in that order because I’d never have called the other way around. She’s almost certainly going to give me an eating plan, and make me follow it. I’ll be losing the only security I have in my life, and I don’t know who I’ll be or how I’ll survive without it.

  The receptionist had called at eight to say that Dr. Melton would make time for me at nine. I’d almost refused the appointment but she’d been so quick and efficient I’d been swept up and hadn’t been able to, and now I am moments away from letting a total stranger run my life and I don’t think I have it in me. I don’t have anything in me, since I was too nervous even to eat a piece of yesterday’s meal replacement bar this morning, and my empty stomach doesn’t make me feel strong like it did before. It makes me feel terri
fied.

  I start to get up, to run away, but as I begin to rise I make myself drop again. I need to be here. I have nothing but the diet, and I want to have so much more. If I run away all I’ll have is what I have right now. And that isn’t enough any more.

  “Valerie?”

  Feeling glad I didn’t get caught trying to escape, I raise my head to see a tall black woman, a size ten or so, with close-cropped hair and silver-framed glasses, wearing a long red short-sleeved cardigan over a dark gray dress.

  I scramble to my feet as she says, “I’m Martha Melton,” then have to grab the chair’s armrest to keep from falling over.

  “Got up a bit too fast, did we?”

  The hint of amusement in her tone isn’t cruel. It’s supportive somehow. She sounds like she’s seen this a million times before and understands it, and that gives me such a feeling of not being a freak that tears I hadn’t known I was holding back rush to my eyes.

  I nod, fighting them off, and she says, “When you’re ready, come with me.”

  When I’m ready? Am I ready?

  I could turn and walk away. I don’t think she’d stop me.

  I look at her, wondering if she would. She gives me a small smile like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and says again, “When you’re ready.”

  I can’t move. I can barely breathe.

  Then a vision of that tomato soup disappearing down my sink’s drain because I couldn’t manage even a mouthful appears before my eyes, and I release the chair and walk toward her.

  Her eyes warm and her smile widens and she murmurs, “Oh, well done,” and I feel like I’ve done well for the first time in twenty years.

  She leads me into a small cozy room and closes the door behind us. The dark oak flooring from the reception area is mostly covered with a thick pink-and-green-flowered carpet, and plush-looking green armchairs await us.

  I want to make a joke about her not having a couch like all the TV shrinks, but I’m too scared. Instead, I take the chair she indicates and wrap my sweater tighter around me.