The Hungry Mirror

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I was angry at being noticed by the women. They’re in the caf often. I see them in the hallways regularly throughout the day, their arms full of food. And here I am, just once and look what happened. They all focused on me, and what I was eating. I was immediately riddled with guilt, and I wondered if they had jinxed me with their comments. What if I started eating and couldn’t ever stop? Was I destined to end up like them, bursting out of floral frocks like over-ripened fat flowers?

  Meg joined me and we went back upstairs.

  I sat down at my desk and my heart pounded so hard it felt like it was thumping against my rib cage.

  Relax, I told myself, hardly able to breathe. You are just hungry, very hungry. Eat it and relax, calculate it and then just subtract it tomorrow. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. You haven’t got fat yet, so just enjoy it, it’s just lunch, and everybody eats lunch, everybody is entitled to lunch. I enjoyed it so much I wished I could have it all over again, and again. The only thing was that it went down so fast. I had tried to eat slowly but after ten minutes all I had to show for my breakdown were a few crumbs. I licked them up and threw the wrapping away. But I was still hungry.

  The popcorn.

  I jumped to my feet and headed straight for the bowl where I grabbed a huge fistful.

  I went back to my desk and chewed vigorously.

  Meg came out of her office.

  “All that food and I’m still hungry,” she said.

  “Have some popcorn,” I told her.

  She took a small handful, which by my estimation, was too small. I felt slightly betrayed by her. I had thought that we were in this together but it seemed I was wrong. I ate more popcorn and found it hard to swallow and I felt slightly depressed.

  That afternoon I tried to focus on my work but all I could see in my mind’s eye was that supersized, orange bowl, still filled with popcorn.

  I had the idea that the bowl was like something out of a horror movie because, no matter how much I ate, it seemed to stay full. Was it waiting for me to explode from greed? Is that how I would die, from eating too much popcorn? Was that the bowl’s mission, to destroy me entirely?

  My afternoon passed slowly, punctuated by popcorn. And still, I did not feel satisfied. I was consumed by an aching, gaping hole of ravenous hunger.

  But it’s just not physically possible, I told myself, despairing. I’ve eaten so much today that I can’t feel hungry, it’s just not possible.

  But it was, and I did.

  The day finally ended and I headed for my car. By this time I was bloated, exhausted, shattered. And, still hungry.

  I got as far as the first traffic light when I realized I had to have chocolate. I simply had to, right then and there.

  I looked around in frantic haste and tried to find the nearest store, running through my route in my mind. I cut through the traffic, blocked lanes, nearly bumper-bashing every car in my way. People swore and gestured rudely at me.

  I had decided which store to go to but then I had another problem, which chocolate bar to buy.

  Should I buy an entire bag’s worth? No, no, I told myself, I never buy food I know I’m going to throw up, I just don’t do that; it’s one of my rules. In light of all the terrible global hunger, it’s sacrilegious, and as long as I don’t do that, I know I don’t have that problem.

  I’d conveniently erased the strawberry and rhubarb pie episode from my consciousness. While Mathew was away, I had ended up fulfilling my fantasy to the letter, much to my later chagrin. And anyway, I continued arguing with myself, it’s not like I’m doing anything unusual. Lots of girls stop every day on the way home to buy themselves a chocolate bar. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do, it’s not like I’m weakening. I’m just a normal girl buying herself a chocolate bar on the way home.

  Just a normal girl

  I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I bought myself a chocolate bar. It was before all the problems started, or was it? I can’t really remember. But I do remember that first time I realized I could buy myself a chocolate bar whenever I liked. I could buy myself a treat whenever I wanted to because I deserved it and because I had the power.

  I had none of the angst then, or had I? I was walking home, down a hill after a French lesson with Madame Martin who always smelled of raw meat, and I was going to meet my mother at the corner. I was neatly dressed in my school uniform, and I carried my notebook with a puppy on the cover under my arm.

  I bought myself a Kit Kat. I had forgotten about that Kit Kat but I remember it now, with a sudden rush of joy. What had pleased me the most was the control. I could buy myself a chocolate bar whenever I wanted.

  I can still remember unwrapping it. I was in no hurry because I was in control. I was powerful. The sun was shining. I was walking down a hill in my precise uniform with everything in its place. I was alone. I was unfettered by people, or demands, or pressure. I was alone, eating my chocolate bar. I had a secret all of my own.

  I remember also the time I stole a chocolate bar, some months later. I told my best friend who didn’t understand. I had slipped it into my pocket, stricken with terror. I was a thief. My filthy greed would be exposed to all.

  “Why didn’t you just buy it?” my friend asked me. “You had the money on you?”

  “Yes, of course, I had the money, and I don’t know why I didn’t pay,” I said, miserable.

  I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day, that night or the next morning.

  At lunchtime I went back to the store and bought another chocolate bar. I threw the money down, paying double, and rushed out before the store-owner could call me.

  My best friend was amused. “It’s not like anyone would have noticed,” she said. “You didn’t have to pay it back.”

  But I noticed. And fixing my mistake had relieved me of a massive burden, as though an eternally forgiving but equally stern God had given me another chance.

  The two incidents had touched me deeply. But I wasn’t really thinking about either one when I pulled over to buy my chocolate bar. Truth be told, I was hardly thinking at all.

  “My dear lady, how are you?” the sleazy man behind the counter asked me. “It’s been so long since you were here. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, working,” I said vaguely, while I examined the chocolate bars and wished he would shut up so I could focus. I reached for a bar then grabbed my hand back. Would that be the one to satisfy my need? No, possibly not. I reached for another, and changed my mind again. There were so many, too many. How could one possibly choose and make the right decision?

  In desperation I took an Oh Henry! because it was big and it had everything. I handed it to the man and stopped myself from shouting at him to hurry up and stop talking. I hoped I would be able to stop myself from tearing it open before I got to my car, and making an utter fool of myself on the street.

  It’s only one little chocolate, I told myself, nearly crying in my desperation. Hey, I am just a normal girl, buying a chocolate bar on the way home, nothing out of the ordinary.

  I reached my car and let myself in. I took a large bite. The chocolate bar seemed so small for something so momentously evil and two bites later it was all gone.

  I contemplated going back to buy another but shame wouldn’t let me. I started my car and headed home. I had, in some unnoticed moment, given up all pretense of normality, of being in control, and I drove blindly, seeing only all the food that waited.

  I could make a batch of muffins and eat them piping hot, with melted butter to make them soggy and soft. Peanut butter, jam, instant oatmeal, cookies, bread.

  I drove and drove, and the journey took forever. When I got home it seemed like even the house tried to thwart me, just as the heavy traffic had done. Every lock took forever to open, and there were so many things to be carried in before I could begin.

  Once in, I headed straight for the kitchen and opened the fridge. I ate and I ate and I ate.

  Finally, I stopped. Not so much because I w
anted to but because I had to. I had a schedule to meet to be ready for Mathew. I looked at my watch. I tied up my hair and went to the bathroom. It wasn’t easy. I had been foolish and eaten too much stodge and not enough liquid. I felt like my stomach was filled with cement.

  I ran a huge bath with nice scalding hot water. Then I tried again. I felt my eyeballs strain and I knew my efforts were going to result in puffy eyes. I was panic-stricken. I forced my stomach to heave until I was sure it was empty but I still thought it was lying to me.

  Sometimes, after I have thrown up, I feel powerful. Sometimes I feel remorse and guilt. This time I didn’t feel a thing.

  I went to the kitchen and filled a tea towel with ice then I wet the towel with water. Then I got into the bath and held the ice against each eyeball. Three minutes an eyeball, alternate carefully. Eventually the swelling started to go down.

  At nine o’ clock I met Mathew at the door and gave him a kiss. My face was a little red but otherwise I was perfect.

  “Supper’s nearly ready,” I said and led him to the dining room.

  As I sat down to my baked potato, no dressing, I congratulated myself on being such a good planner; how I could always rely on myself to see myself through and present a good face to the world, no matter what had happened.

  I felt alone though, betrayed by my loss of control and it was hard to concentrate on Mathew telling me about his day. I was glad I had hidden all the evidence but I was still fat and bloated, small and greasy. I wished I could sleep away the entire next day so that I wouldn’t have to be in my body while it dealt with the uncomfortable aftermath of the binge.

  I wished I wasn’t so very alone.

  The art of snacking

  NOT LONG AFTER THE POPCORN debacle, I get more proof of Meg’s eating disorder. We are supposed to go out to lunch with Kenneth to celebrate a bunch of ads that have finally come in.

  I am prepared for the day. I haven’t brought in any breakfast, or lunch, or any food at all. First, there is Kenneth’s lunch; second, there is going to be a dinner and drinks after work – the recently introduced once-a-month gathering of all the magazines owned by Pablo. He’s the dubious publisher that Mathew thinks is trying to expand too quickly and, with five magazines launched in just over a year, I am beginning to see Mathew’s point.

  “Fuck,” Kenneth exclaims as he burst into the office. The expression seems to have become his mantra. “I have a meeting at nine then another at twelve then one at three and then these stupid drinks at four-thirty. I don’t know where this day is going to. I haven’t finished the article you wanted to lay out today but I’ll try to get that to you before I go.”

  “So lunch is off?” I ask tremulously. I don’t have a scrap of food with me and I am angry with him. He had said we would celebrate. God knows he’d been celebrating with just about everybody else around here and I am the one who did all the work to get the ads. Everybody knows that.

  “Oh fuck, sorry, right, that’s today,” he says and slaps his hand to his forehead. “I totally forgot. Oh well, we’ll do it sometime next week.”

  “But I purposely didn’t bring any lunch with me today,” I tell him. I am fuming.

  “Oh. Well, I can always lend you some money or something,” he says, not getting the magnitude of this at all.

  “I never spend money on lunch,” I tell him. “It’s just a thing with me. Can’t you give me money from petty cash or something?”

  “I have no idea how petty cash works,” Kenneth says, looking peeved.

  “Oh look, don’t worry, I’ll make a plan,” I say. “It’s just that I thought…”

  He walks away, not bothering to disguise the fact that my lunch problems are extremely inconsequential to him.

  At lunchtime I go to the caf and buy an apple, a pear, an orange, and a plain, unbuttered whole-wheat roll. Earlier, I had contemplated not getting any lunch at all but I realized that was the worst thing I could do because then I would fall on the snacks later in a ravenous hunger and demolish every last thing.

  No, it is far better to be satisfied before reaching the buffet table. I congratulate myself on this planning, pleased to see I’ve learned.

  Just as I am leaving to get my lunch, I ask Meg if she wants to come to the caf with me, but she says no. She has her diet Coke and really, she is fine.

  Later that evening, at the snacks table, I watch her eat everything in sight. It is this lack of control that first alerted me to Meg having food issues like me. I had noticed that she never brought in food for lunch and never bought any for herself either. But if there was food around, then she’d eat whatever she could, and if I ever offered her an apple, she’d eat it in two seconds flat. I had tested her more than once. She ate whatever was given to her and left no crumb unturned. She didn’t even pause for breath until she had finished.

  It’s this panicked manner of eating that reminds me of myself, the hasty gobbling without tasting, followed by that instant look of surprise remorse and guilt.

  After the room thins out a little, I join her at the table. I am not particularly enamored by the snacks; maybe the earlier lunchtime fruit had done the trick or maybe it’s been the irritating day that I had because of Kenneth but I just don’t feel the need to stuff myself.

  “I feel like a balloon,” Meg blows her cheeks out to demonstrate. “I feel so swollen. And after this, we are going out to dinner with some new friends of Jon’s.”

  “Do the pushing your food around your plate thing,” I advise her. Then, taking a chance, I ask, “Don’t you hate it when people say things to you like ‘you don’t eat much,’ or ‘here, let me give you some more of this fatty, mayo drenched pasta salad,’ and things like that?”

  She looks surprised. “Well, I usually eat like a horse,” she says. “So, no, people don’t say stuff like that to me.”

  “Well, they do to me, and I get so embarrassed. I want to say ‘thanks but I’ve eaten as much as I want to, so bug off why don’t you.’ Or, ‘no thanks, I am pleasantly full; no thanks I am stuffed to the gills; no really, please just go away and leave me alone….’ I tell you Meg, I have tried everything.”

  “Well, people don’t do that to me,” she says, popping a handful of olives into her mouth.

  “And I told Jon I would have had my supper already,” she gestures at the table, then reaches for more olives. “But he thinks I’m making it up as an excuse, because he thinks I’ve got some kind of obsession or something, but it’s not that. I’ve just eaten here, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like eating in the evenings at all,” I tell her. “I am hungriest in the morning, ravenous really. I can eat solidly till eleven and then I am fine.”

  “Oh, so am I,” she agrees. “And then I get home and don’t want anything and Jon says I have a problem and I tell him well you didn’t see what I ate all day at work.” She plucks at her blouse, trying to loosen it. “I am having a terrible fat day,” she says, her sexy jazz singer’s voice languid.

  “So am I,” I say. “You know, a week ago I was fine, really fine. I had even planned an outfit to wear to this concert we went to, which was so stupid because then, surprise, surprise, I had a fat day. I couldn’t wear the outfit and I tell you it took me about three hours to find the right tent to wear.”

  “I heard we have fat days,” Meg spears more food and double-dips with her toothpick, “before it’s supposed to rain. It’s very humid then which means there is a lot of moisture in the air. Moisture can’t leave your body because there’s nowhere for it to go, so it stays inside you and builds up. Then, when it rains, the humidity clears up in the outside air and the moisture has somewhere to go.”

  I look at her. “Hmmmm,” I say, unconvinced.

  “Well, it’s a theory,” she says, eating cubes of cheese.

  Our conversation moves onto thighs chaffing and the art of sitting slim on a fat day. On a thin day you can sit how you like, but on a fat day, you have to perch and pose. And, if you are sitting next to a guy in
a car, you have to cross one leg over the other and try to lift yourself up so your thighs don’t spread out like dead whales. Meg bemoans her saddle-bag hips but I can’t empathize with her on that one because I really do have saddle-bag hips while Meg is as broad as a skinny fourteen-year-old boy.

  I don’t feel like I am bonding with Meg at all because although she is saying the right things, the same things I am, she is thinner than me, and thinner is thinner, and that’s all there is to it.

  I wonder if she thinks I am obese. I worry about ever eating in front of her again. Meg moves on to complain that Jon wants her to eat three, solid meals a day; he is that kind of person.

  “Well,” I say, “Mathew’s really good that way. He never forces me to eat or tells me what to eat. If I am hungry and he isn’t, or vice versa, then I eat or don’t, which is really great.”

  It seems like I can’t stop talking. “My family always wanted us to eat together. You know, like a family who prays together stays together. But with my family it was more like a family who binges together stays together. So our eating was never healthy. It was always deep-fried takeout with bags of chocolates for dessert. And, if I didn’t eat with them, it was like a statement of defiance. It was like I didn’t love them, that I was choosing a side against them. And then we were all expected to diet together too.”

  “Oh, our family was never like that,” Meg says, still eating steadily. “We never ate together but there was always food there if we wanted it. But now Jon forces me.”

  I wasn’t sure about that so much. Mathew and I had dinner with Meg and Jon once and I got the distinct impression that he likes her thin. In fact, he likes her really thin. I couldn’t put my finger on it but it was there, and I knew I was right. I’m never wrong about things like that.

  I noticed Jon watching Meg order a salad with cheese but no dressing. Then I watched him eat a tiny piece of a sandwich. So he wasn’t at ease with food either.

  Mathew had ordered pasta with a cream sauce while I had a small salad, with lettuce, tomato and cucumber, and a small side order of steamed vegetables.