The Hunger

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  “What level are we going to play it on?” asked Paula.

  “We’re sure not going to play it on ‘king’ again,” he said. “Level one is ‘chieftain.’ It’s way too easy. Maybe we should play it on ‘prince,’ which is one level down from ‘king.’”

  “Sounds good,” said Paula. Then she watched the screen as the game computed all the choices that they had made.

  The screen went black except for a couple of green squares in the middle. As Erik made moves with his mouse, more squares opened up. “Good!” shouted Erik. “At least we’re not an island this time.”

  “Are you looking for a good place to put your capital city?” Paula asked, remembering how it worked in the original Civilization.

  “Yes. I want to put it somewhere on land, not close to an ocean because you can get attacked too easily if it’s close to an ocean.”

  “What about here?” Paula pointed to a flat area of land close to a river.

  “That’s pretty good,” said Erik. “It’s got the river, making it easier for irrigation and transportation of resources. That’s actually a very good site. Thanks, sis.”

  Paula sat and watched as her brother flashed through turns. He played the game so rapidly that she had trouble keeping track of everything he did. As the land masses revealed themselves, populations increased and years went by. The form of government changed from despotism to monarchy, and technology evolved through ritual burial, writing, literacy, iron working, invention of the wheel, horseback riding. Paula’s eyes glazed over as she watched the choices flicker by. They played until Paula detected the sharp smell of burning kasha. She ran downstairs to see if she could salvage supper.

  Friday, October 2, after school

  Paula didn’t go directly from school to the clinic. She stopped at home and drank six huge glasses of water, only stopping when she thought she might throw up. She checked her weight on the scale in her room and was gratified to see that it showed her at 128. Rooting around in her sock drawer, she pulled out a set of flexible wrist weights. She slipped these on and found a long-sleeved sweater in her closet and pulled it over her head, rolling the cuffs to hide the weights.

  “One hundred and thirty one pounds,” declared Dr. Tavish.

  Paula smiled to herself. For once, the scales had become her ally.

  “I still want you to come in next week, Paula,” said Doctor T, writing out instructions on a prescription sheet. “And this time, I’ll come out with you to the nurses’ desk and help you schedule that appointment.”

  Paula rolled her eyes in disgust, but followed behind him.

  Friday, October 9—122 pounds

  Paula always felt cold. Throughout most of September, the weather had been moderately cool, and Paula’s layering of clothing for warmth and subterfuge had gone unnoticed. But Indian summer had arrived with a vengeance, and today was unseasonably hot. Paula dug through her drawer and found a wraparound denim mini skirt that had been one of her favourite pieces of clothing just a year before. She held it up to her waist and walked to the mirror, chuckling at how huge the skirt looked now. She could still wear it, but it would require a lot more “wrapping around” than it did last year! Before she put it on, she stepped onto her scales and was delighted to see that the weight was still coming off. She hoped that the weather would cool down by her four o’clock appointment with Doctor Tavish; otherwise, he’d be suspicious of her bulky clothing.

  When Paula walked into the kitchen that morning for breakfast, her brother Erik was sitting by himself at the table, immersed in his portable video game. His bowl of Cocoa Puffs was pushed to one side, the cereal bloated with neglect. Her father had already left for work and her mother was still in the shower. At the sight of his sister in her revealing outfit, Erik dropped his Game Gear on the table with a clatter.

  “When did you get so skinny, Paula?” he asked.

  Paula flashed him a hurt look and then walked over to the counter and poured herself a cup of black coffee.

  “I’m serious, Paula. You look like that mother we found on the Internet last night.”

  “That’s a nasty thing to say to your sister,” Paula replied, then took her mug back over to the table and sat down. For several minutes she simply sat there, breathing in the aroma of fresh coffee. Sometimes, she thought, smelling was as good as eating.

  When she slipped home just before her four o’clock doctor’s appointment, Paula realized she had a problem. Temperatures had remained high all day and there was no way she would look normal wearing bulky clothes. Where could she hide her weights? Her sessions had been going on for a number of weeks, and as the time passed, Paula had become adept at hiding weights in various places within her clothing. Doctor Tavish had congratulated her on maintaining her weight of 131 pounds. This feat of deception became harder as her real weight declined.

  Paula forced herself to drink more water than she ever had before—nine glasses! And she felt like she could barely walk without slishing and sloshing. She fanned out her array of weights on the bedspread and tried to decide which ones would be most hideable under light clothing. In the end, she wore a five-pound belt tied around her waist and underneath an untucked blouse.

  She stepped on the scales. One hundred and twenty nine. Good.

  Paula rarely had to wait more than fifteen minutes for her session with Doctor Tavish, but today he seemed to be taking forever. By the time the clock showed 4:30, Paula was in agony. She had to go to the bathroom or she would burst. Clutching her stomach, Paula walked up to the nurses’ desk and asked Nancy how much longer the doctor would be.

  “Oh Hon,” said Nancy, looking up a stack of forms. “He got called out to deliver a baby and he’s been behind schedule ever since.”

  “Maybe I should skip this appointment and come back next week,” said Paula, trying her best not to hop from one foot to the other.

  “No,” said Nancy. “Doctor T gave me specific instructions. He told me to ask you to wait. He’ll be no more than another fifteen minutes.”

  Nancy watched as Paula ran to the bathroom.

  Knowing she couldn’t hold it any longer, Paula peed what felt like gallons of water. As she sat on the toilet, she considered her options. If she took off without waiting to see Doctor T, he’d call her parents. If he saw her and weighed her as usual, he’d discover her deception.

  Paula’s only solution was to drink more water before she was called in for her appointment.

  When Paula left the bathroom, she made a beeline for the cooler in the corner and rapidly downed half a dozen tiny cones of water—equaling about one glass of water at home.

  As she waited for the seventh to fill up, she heard Nancy call her name. “Damn!” she muttered. There’s no way I’ll weigh enough. She quickly gulped a last cone of water, then followed Nancy into one of the examining rooms.

  “You must be thirsty today,” said Nancy. Paula could only hope that she wouldn’t mention anything to Doctor Tavish.

  As Paula sat on the edge of the examining table waiting for the doctor to arrive, she breathed a nervous sigh. She knew that this was the day she would be found out. After a few minutes of waiting, she heard low voices just outside her door. Nancy tattling on her, Paula thought with anger.

  Doctor Tavish tapped on the door, then opened it a crack. “Paula, I’d like you to change into a hospital gown for your weighing today,” he said. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to enter.”

  A hospital gown? Paula lifted one of the worn blue gowns from a pile on the table and held it in front of her. This was worse than she had imagined. Paula couldn’t possibly hide her waist weight in an open-backed hospital gown.

  She was trapped.

  Paula threw the blue gown onto the floor of the examining room and opened the door. “Screw this,” she thought. “No matter what I do, they’re going to tell my parents.”

  She walked down the hallway, passing Nancy and Doctor Tavish, who were huddled in deep conversation. Doctor Tavish loo
ked up as Paula walked past him. “Hold on!” he said. “We can help you.”

  “I don’t need help,” said Paula, as she walked out the doors of the clinic.

  Paula was thrown into another state of hungered frenzy. She ran home from the clinic and opened the pantry door. She pulled down the coffee canister and pried off the lid. “Damn, damn, damn!” There was no money.

  Paula loped up the stairs to her brother’s room at the end of the hallway. She opened his door and was relieved to see that he wasn’t there. “He must be late with his fliers,” she considered. It was almost five o’clock. Later than usual for her brother to be gone. She lifted up the bottom corner of her brother’s duvet and groped under the mattress, looking for his stash of bills.

  “Ouch!” she yelped, withdrawing her hand. A mouse trap dangled from her index finger. “You jerk,” cried Paula. Leave it to her brother to protect his money with a lethal weapon.

  Paula pried her finger loose and threw the trap on the floor into a pile of her brother’s clothing. “I hope you step on it, you little twerp,” she muttered under her breath.

  She dashed down the stairs and ran into the kitchen, opening the pantry door wide, looking for something, anything to gorge on. But her mother’s diet regimens had stripped the selection down to only the barest of choices.

  Paula grabbed a bag of brown sugar, the canister of flour, a package of lard, and some chocolate syrup. Getting out a bowl and her trusty wooden spoon, she dug out a dollop of the lard and dumped it into the bowl. She mixed alternating spoonfuls of flour and sugar, stirring all the while to maintain an icing-like consistency. When the full container of lard had been worked into the mixture and most of the sugar was gone, Paula squirted a stream of chocolate syrup over it. Paula dipped her spoon into the sludge and filled her mouth.

  At precisely that moment, Paula’s mother entered the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Her mother walked over to where she was sitting and grabbed the wooden spoon away from her mouth. She dropped the spoon on the table, splattering Paula with the chocolatey mess. Paula didn’t know whether she was more stunned by the confrontation or by the simple fact that her mother was actually home before 6.

  “I... I’m … hungry,” she said quietly.

  “If you’re hungry, I can make you something healthy.” Mrs. Romaniuk’s voice had a shrill undertone of panic. She walked over to the pantry and opened it much like her daughter had done moments before. Scanning the shelves for something to offer, she said, “I can warm up some soup. Or how about crackers? There’s cheese in the fridge. I know we’ve got apples.”

  “Forget it, Mom. I’m fine,” Paula said, pushing the bowl of calories away from her.

  Emily Romaniuk walked back over to the table and sat in the chair across from her daughter. “You’re not fine,” she said. “I got a call from Dr. Tavish today.” Tears welled in her eyes as she continued. “When he told me he was calling about you, I was so afraid that something serious had happened to you, and then when he told me it was about your diet, I was confused. He says you’re anorexic with bulimic tendencies. Is that true?”

  “No, it’s not true,” said Paula. “He thinks I should weigh more, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all, honey,” responded Mrs. Romaniuk. “Dr. Tavish told me that we should all go into therapy.” With that, her voice cracked, and Mrs. Romaniuk held her face in her hands. “How could I let this happen?”

  “Mom,” responded Paula in alarm. “You didn’t do anything! It’s all Dr. Tavish’s fault. He has unrealistic expectations about what I should weigh. Did you know that I haven’t lost a single pound since I’ve been seeing him?”

  As soon as the statement was out, Paula wished she hadn’t said it. Her mother looked at her face and then at her arms. She looked under the table at Paula’s bony legs. “He says you’ve been tricking him with water-loading and wearing weights.” It was a statement, not a question, so Paula didn’t reply.

  “I want you to weigh yourself right now, Paula. And I will watch.”

  Slowly, the two walked up the flight of stairs to Paula’s bedroom. Her mother stood in the doorway as Paula gingerly stepped on the scales.

  The indicator wavered back and forth, finally settling on 121. Paula almost leapt for joy at the loss of another pound, but remembered that her mother was standing there and that she wouldn’t be impressed.

  “Doctor Tavish says you should be hospitalized if you get below 115,” her mother said with a tremor in her voice. She was deeply shocked by the number on the scale. She knew that the normal range for a teenager of Paula’s height should be 140 to 165 pounds. “We’ll have to start family counselling immediately if we want to avoid hospitalization.”

  Paula looked up from the scales, “Don’t you think we can work on this together?” she asked. “We should at least give it a try before we give up and go into therapy.” Her mother’s brows furrowed as she considered this new option. Paula smiled inwardly. She always had been good at pushing the right buttons.

  Paula stared down at a dinner plate of steak, potato salad, and creamed corn that her mother had made and placed before her. She could feel the bile in her throat rise at the sight of such fattening fare.

  “You have to eat every bite,” said her father, who was eating his dinner with gusto. Her brother Erik also seemed thrilled with the menu.

  Paula looked over at her mother, who was picking at her plate. Her mother looked up and met the pained expression in her daughter’s eyes. She carefully placed her fork beside her plate and said to her husband, “Erik, I don’t think Dr. Tavish meant for us to force Paula to eat.”

  “Emily,” said Mr. Romaniuk, “He told us if she didn’t start gaining back some weight, she’d have to be hospitalized.”

  “I know that. I talked to him, too. What he suggested is that we all go to counselling together so that we can get to the bottom of this problem. Force-feeding isn’t the solution.”

  “Look,” said Mr. Romaniuk, “I am not going to sit in a room listening to some ninety-dollar-an-hour social worker who drinks coffee all day for a living. If our daughter needs to put some meat on her bones, we can do that ourselves. Without interference.” Paula’s father speared a piece of steak and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You could help, Emily, if you were a better role model for your daughter.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” answered Mrs. Romaniuk.

  “Stop eating all that diet food. What do you think gave her the idea in the first place?”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” her mother flashed angrily. “You know that I’ve had trouble keeping my weight down ever since I had the kids.”

  During this conversation, Paula hung her head guiltily. It was giving birth to her that had made her mother fat in the first place. And now it was because of her that her parents were having this big blow-up.

  She dug her fork into the heap of potato salad and pulled out a chunk. She swallowed back the bile that had accumulated at the back of her throat and placed the food onto her tongue. The weight of it made her want to gag—the oily texture of mayonnaise-laden potato chunks was making her feel more nauseated by the moment. She made chewing motions with her mouth. She desperately wanted to make her parents happy, but she felt incapable of eating this food. She wished that her parents would be distracted so she could spit the obscene mess out of her mouth and into her serviette.

  “You’d better swallow that, sis, before it starts sprouting,” Erik teased.

  Paula’s father made her finish every last bite of food on her plate. When she asked to be excused, he wouldn’t let her get up. “You’re just going to vomit,” he explained. “That’s what bulimics do.” He took off his wristwatch and set it in front of him on the table, then opened the sports section of the newspaper. “You can get up in half an hour.”

  Paula felt trapped and humiliated. The food that he had made her eat was sitting in the pit of her stomach, just waiting to be thrown u
p. She could feel a bulge forming on her once-flat stomach as she imagined the unnecessary calories being absorbed into her system. She had to get away!

  “I have a history test tomorrow, Dad, and I’ve got to study.”

  “Erik!” her father hollered. “Bring down your sister’s knapsack.” He turned to look at her. “No reason you can’t study while you wait.”

  When the half hour was up, Paula knew better than to run to the bathroom to try and throw up—her father would hear everything. Instead, she went to her room, closed the door, and rooted through her top drawer. Stashed in the back was her emergency supply of laxatives. She swallowed a triple dose.

  She then began a frenzied series of sit ups. One calorie per sit up, she figured, and that meal must have had at least 1200 calories.

  Monday, October 26, 114 pounds

  Paula gave her room one last glance, then picked up her overnight bag and walked down the stairs. Doctor Tavish had warned her that the hospital did not allow much in the way of personal items. No make-up or stuffed animals. She had packed a couple of novels, sweat pants and shirts, underwear, and shampoo. The bag was not heavy, but to Paula it felt like it held the weight of the world.

  Her parents and brother were already waiting in the car, so Paula didn’t linger as she walked through the front room and out the door to the driveway.

  Because she was still only 15, Doctor Tavish had her admitted onto the pediatric ward. Homewood, a hospital just one hundred kilometres away in Guelph, had a very successful eating disorder treatment program, but it also had a waiting list more than a month long. Doctor Tavish wouldn’t risk waiting any longer. He put her on the waiting list for Homewood, but admitted her to Brantford General immediately.

  As Paula walked through the hospital corridor with her parents on either side and her brother trailing behind, she couldn’t help but notice some of the other children on the ward. Two preschoolers who looked like they had been beaten were now wrapped in gauze and casts in a room to her left. Images of Armenian orphans flashed through her mind. Across the hallway was a boy in traction with a broken leg. Three children ran up and down the hallway, shrieking excitedly. One bumped into Paula and almost knocked her over. “Lady, you’re dead skinny!” the young boy said, looking at Paula in disgust. Her father gripped her arm protectively and shook his finger at the boy. “Mind your own business,” he blurted.