by Marian Keyes
Ed had thought it would be a relief to have the problem out in the open. Instead he felt overwhelmed. For as long as it had lurked underground, he had hopelessly believed there was a chance it would go away by itself. Now it had to be addressed. ‘I guess I did. She had a bout, years ago. I suspected she’d started again. Will she be okay?’
‘From her blood work, the state of her teeth, she’s packed a lot of purging into a short time, but it’s impossible to know exactly how much.’
‘Can we ask her?’
‘She’s likely to lie.’
‘Not to me.’
A sympathetic look from the doctor made him twitchy with fear. She knew more than he did about Cara, about what she’d been doing. And Cara had been lying to him: lying by omission was still a lie.
‘In my experience,’ the doctor said, ‘Cara will need residential care –’
‘Wait – what, a hospital? You said she was stable.’
‘A treatment centre. For addiction. Yes, it’s an addiction. I can give you a leaflet.’
‘But … How long would she have to go in for?’
‘It’s generally twenty-eight days.’
‘And then she’ll be fixed?’
‘I can recommend a couple of places in Dublin. I’d ring first thing in the morning, get her on the wait lists.’
‘And then she’ll be fixed?’
‘You can see her now. Fancy-dress party, was it?’
She’d had a sense of bumping and moving at speed. Bright lights were shone into her eyes. She knew Ed was there. Others, too, but Ed was the only one she needed.
Unfamiliar voices were asking and answering short, urgent questions.
‘What’s going on?’ Her voice was hoarse.
Ed’s face was very close. ‘You had a seizure.’
‘Why?’
His face was blank. ‘You tell me.’
No. No, no, no, no, no.
It couldn’t be. That was too crazy. It must be stress. Or some neurological thing that had only just appeared …
This could not be her fault.
Then they arrived at a big busy hospital. Ed was no longer with her as she was wheeled into a small, curtained space, to be examined by a succession of people in blue scrubs. ‘I’m okay now,’ she kept saying anxiously.
‘Excellent. I’m just going to …’
Then she was hurriedly hooked up to a drip, attached to a heart monitor, and had four vials of blood taken from her veins. ‘Really,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m fine. Can I see my husband?’
‘After your CAT scan.’
A CAT scan? Cold horror overtook her. If she’d triggered all this medical expertise and expense from too much chocolate and puking, the guilt would kill her.
And to think she’d done it on Jessie’s special birthday.
As she lay on her back in the tight white machine, for a moment she hoped the scan would show that she had a real condition, like epilepsy. Then shame kicked in once more. When she got out of here, she would take a long, hard look at things. Perhaps she could see a hypnotherapist, to help her stop.
The curtain of her cubicle swished aside and in came the doctor, followed by Ed.
She tried to smile.
‘No neurological issues,’ Dr Colgan said. ‘You can leave shortly. How long have you been bulimic?’
Cara flicked a look at Ed. ‘I’m not –’
‘You’ve a chronic eating disorder.’ The doctor was clearly in no mood for nonsense. ‘You can see the results of your blood work. Your electrolytes are acutely out of balance. And your tooth enamel shows signs of recent acid erosion.’
All of her secrets were written in her body.
‘How long?’ the doctor repeated.
‘Three months.’
She shook her head. ‘Longer than that.’
‘I swear. Only three months.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly packed a lot in. This isn’t your first bout?’
This mortification would never end. ‘No.’
‘I’d recommend in-patient care for at least four weeks.’
What? No. ‘I can’t. I’ve a job and two children.’
‘I’ve seen this before. You could die if you don’t stop. It’s unlikely that you’ll stop on your own.’
‘I will.’ She was scared shitless.
‘Bulimia is an addiction.’
That wasn’t true. She’d just been eating too much chocolate and now the very idea of it made her feel sick.
The drive back to Gulban Manor was in silence, but as soon as they were in their room of many beds, Ed rounded on her. ‘You should have told me.’ He was furious. ‘What’s the use of this – you and me – if you can’t tell me about something so, so … important?’
‘It was only for a short time. I was going to stop and –’
‘I thought you were going to die,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine how that feels?’
‘I’ll stop. I’ll do it with your help.’
‘You go into a residential place. You do what the doctor said. For a month.’
Her guts seized with fear. Oh, no. No. ‘There’s no need, Ed. I’ve scared myself so much that I’ll never do it again.’
‘She gave me a leaflet. Bulimia’s an addiction. You need to go to a place.’
‘What about my job?’
‘You won’t be much use to them if you’re dead.’
‘Ed, I won’t be dead.’
‘But, honey, you might.’
The sadness that was hiding beneath his rage was suddenly obvious and her heart turned to jelly. ‘Ed, sweetie … You got a fright. I got a fright. But I’ve stopped now. It’ll be okay.’
‘The doctor knows what she’s talking about. I’ll ring the places in the morning.’
Ed took professional advice literally. It was something she had always found endearing, but not now.
SIXTY-TWO
Cara knocked on Jessie’s door, and a voice shouted, ‘Come in, unless you’re Johnny the arsehole Casey!’
Cara tentatively stepped into the room, Ed behind her.
Jessie was in bed, in her pyjamas, Saoirse asleep beside her. The curtains were open, letting in dull morning light.
‘Jessie, I’m so sorry for ruining your birthday.’
Breezily, Jessie said, ‘You haven’t ruined it, you big eejit. Johnny did that, all by himself. But I’m worried about you! Is it true? Bulimia?’
Cara burnt. This must mean that the whole house knew. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She tried to smile. ‘It was just a blip.’
‘We’re going to head off now,’ Ed said. ‘Cara has an appointment this afternoon at St David’s.’
‘The nut-house?’ Jessie’s eyes flared with something. Glee? ‘On a Saturday?’
‘The psychiatric hospital.’ Ed corrected. ‘To see if she’d be a good fit.’
‘Sure. Sure. Do whatever you need to do.’
Out on the landing, Cara said, ‘Where’s Johnny, do you think?’
‘Probably Saoirse’s room, if Saoirse stayed with Jessie.’
Johnny was indeed in the camp bed in the small kitchen. His doctor’s accoutrements were flung about the room, the top-hat balanced on the kettle. He radiated exhausted, manic conviviality.
‘Sorry for ruining the weekend.’
‘Not at all!’ He shrugged extravagantly. ‘Everything is my fault. Don’t even think about it.’
‘I need to apologize to Ferdia and Nell too,’ Cara said. ‘And thank them.’
‘This reminds me,’ Johnny was talking too loudly, ‘of the day after Ed’s stag night. I had to apologize to every one of my neighbours. Woudja stop! I banged saucepans against their doors all night long. Marching up and down the stairs, singing rebel songs. Drinking rum. Never again, ha-ha-ha, never again.’
Johnny was clearly still a bit drunk and very distressed.
Cara managed a polite ha-ha at his story but everything was dismal.
‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘Good luck at the loony-bin!’
/>
As they made their way to the car, Cara felt the eyes of the house on her. She was a fuck-up, a weak, greedy person, and everyone knew. She’d never, in her entire life, felt as low as she did right now. ‘Jessie’s thrilled,’ she said.
‘Oh, honey. Not in a mean way. She’s just excited about having an interesting family.’
‘Compulsive overeating is a mental illness,’ Varina, the admissions officer at the hospital, was clear. ‘So is bulimia.’
But Cara knew that the only thing wrong with her was simple greed. She wasn’t a mad person and she didn’t want to be treated as one. ‘I can stop on my own.’
‘Have you tried?’
‘Yes. Not really. But it’s different now. I’ve scared myself.’
‘If nothing changes, nothing changes,’ Varina said.
Cara didn’t even know what that meant. She just wanted to return to her ordinary life and put all of this behind her. ‘I can stop on my own. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused everyone and thank you for your time.’
‘But –’ Ed was white.
‘If you’re bothered by the stigma of being in a psychiatric hospital, we could take you as a day patient. It’s not ideal, but –’
‘I can stop. I’ve stopped. It’s in the past.’
Bouncing the end of a pencil against her desk, Varina appeared deep in thought. ‘Maybe you can stop on your own. Time will tell. Having a seizure is generally a red flag that bulimia is at an advanced stage … However, as your life isn’t in immediate danger, you can’t be compelled to come in here.’
‘But –’ Ed said again.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Casey,’ Varina said. ‘I cannot help you if you don’t see the need yourself.’
Out in the corridor, ecstatic that she’d dodged a bullet, Cara whispered happily, ‘It’ll be okay, honey, I promise.’
Ed regarded her coldly.
‘I mean it. Everything is going to be different. I’m glad the seizure happened, well, not glad for upsetting you, but finally I feel free of the food.’
Ed saw the traffic light up ahead change to amber and he floored the pedal. By the time he roared the car through, the light had been red for at least two seconds. Irate beeps sounded. Fuck them.
‘Honey,’ Cara said, with soft alarm.
More bullshit up ahead, some fool in the wrong lane, trying to turn right, holding up the whole road. ‘Fucking move.’
‘Ed!’
He ignored her. In his entire life, he’d never been as angry as he was now. Not just with her but with himself. He’d been complicit: throwing out all the chocolate in the house; holding some back for the inevitable emergency; worst of all, for not asking her about the chocolate he’d found that time in the unused bathroom cupboard.
He really should have said something when he’d found the empty ice-cream carton in her washbag.
Why hadn’t he?
Because she’d have lied.
Lied. To him. Cara, his best friend, his wife. If soul-mates existed, he could have been persuaded to believe that that was what they were.
She had, in fact, already lied to him, by hiding her cravings, her behaviour, her shame and her fear. Perhaps he’d been waiting for things to become so serious that they were undeniable. Which said precisely what about him? That he was a coward. Because she could have died last night. She’d become a danger to herself and she still wouldn’t admit she had a problem.
Plenty of frustrated rage was reserved for the admissions officer at St David’s. Cara was obviously unwell, sick, whatever the correct word was. It was the job of the medical profession to help people like her and they hadn’t.
‘Should we swing by Mum’s and pick up the kiddos and Baxter?’ Cara asked.
‘No.’ If the kids were with them, they’d have to park this. It was too serious to sideline.
‘It would be great to have the weekend together, just the four of us.’
‘A normal weekend? Where we pretend you didn’t have a seizure last night?’
‘Hey! Don’t yell at me.’
He took a breath and tried to calm his frantic heart. ‘Cara, think about this. Last night you. Had. A. Seizure.’
‘A “mild” one.’
‘You could have died. The boys could be motherless right now. I could be without you. That could still happen.’
‘I won’t die. I’ve stopped.’
‘You’ve been offered help. There’s a lifeline for you to get better. Cara, please take it.’
‘I don’t need it.’
‘What do you want to do about dinner?’ Ed came into their bedroom, where she was scrolling through Facebook.
They were alone in the house. On any other evening, they’d have loved this unexpected freedom, but tonight they were barely speaking.
Ed had never yelled at her before today. In the last thirteen years, she’d seen him angry a literal handful of times and never with her.
‘Dinner?’ he repeated.
‘Oh? I’m allowed a dinner? I thought I had an eating disorder.’
‘You have to eat. We could get a Deliveroo?’
‘Should a person with an eating disorder be getting a takeaway? Anyway, how could I enjoy it with you watching me eat?’
‘How about afterwards you drive down to the garage, buy ten bars of chocolate, eat them in secret then make yourself puke?’ he asked, in a hot blurt of rage.
It shocked her into silence.
‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ he said. ‘I’m scared. I’ve been reading about bulimia.’
‘Where? Dr Google? You should know better than to believe that stuff.’
‘The leaflet Dr Colgan gave me last night says the same things.’ He produced it and pressed it on her. ‘Can you take a look?’
Irritably, she scanned it.
Secrecy. Escalating behaviour. Lifelong problem. Body dissatisfaction. Severe self-criticism. Eating very large amounts of food, often in an out-of-control way, in a short space of time. Avoiding social activities which involve food. Thinking about food all the time. Abusing laxatives. Over-exercising. A constant sore throat …
‘I don’t abuse laxatives or over-exercise.’
‘But you do some of the other stuff.’
She read from the leaflet. ‘Avoiding social activities which involve food? I don’t think so, Ed.’
‘You might not avoid them, but you hate them.’
‘So why make me do them? It’s your family. My family is different. None of my real friends put me through that sort of misery.’
‘I’m sorry –’
‘Good. Moving on.’ She took a breath and strove to sound reasonable. ‘Ed, please, sweetie. Can we forget this happened? It’ll never happen again.’
‘No.’
This surprised her. ‘What’s up? You just want to get your own way?’
‘It’s because I’m worried.’
Abruptly, she said, ‘I don’t want any dinner. I don’t want anything.’
‘You’re absolutely sure? Well … Okay.’
Forty minutes later the doorbell rang. Then came the sounds of Ed talking to a person at the door. Someone called Thanks, the front door slammed, then a motorbike started up outside.
He hadn’t …?
She thumped down the stairs and into the kitchen. He had. The utter bastard had got an Indian delivered just for himself. ‘Why didn’t you get me something?’
‘You said you didn’t want any.’
She thumped around the kitchen and made herself a bowl of muesli.
To punish him, she slept in Vinnie’s bed.
When she woke on Sunday morning, everything that had happened seemed far less dramatic. Clearly, she’d been really stressed at work and finding it hard to adjust to Ed being away Monday to Friday. Whatever had happened to her in that mad hotel – and it probably hadn’t been an actual seizure – was the result of stress. Everyone had overreacted because they were drunk.
She and Ed were not falling apart. Everything
just needed to be made normal again.
In their bedroom Ed was asleep. Even in slumber he looked worried.
‘Ed?’
He jumped awake, looked frightened, then his face softened into a smile. ‘Honey.’
‘We should talk.’
‘Okay. Right.’ He rubbed his eyes.
‘I’m afraid, Ed. I don’t want to have a label. I don’t want to have an “eating disorder”.’
‘But you have a label, you have an eating disorder.’
She hadn’t been expecting such a spirited comeback. ‘I can think myself better. I don’t need all this hospital stuff.’
‘You do need it.’
Frustration rose. In the past, Ed’s willingness to Follow the Instructions had seemed like a cute personality trait. But now he simply seemed wilfully stubborn.
‘Seriously, Cara, if you won’t get help, I can’t stay.’
Incredulously she asked, ‘Are you … threatening me?’
‘I guess I am.’
He couldn’t be serious.
On the pillow beside his head, his phone vibrated. ‘I’ve got to take this.’
Startled, she listened. What could be so important?
‘Scott,’ Ed said. ‘Thanks for calling back.’ He listened to whatever this Scott said. ‘You can? That’s great, man … Mostly Louth. I’ll email you the brief.’ He listened some more. ‘For a week anyway. Maybe longer. We can touch base on Friday. I’ll have a better idea then … Yeah? Great. Thanks, I owe you.’
He hung up, and Cara said, ‘What the hell, Ed? Did you just get someone to cover your work?’
‘A freelancer. Yep.’
‘Why? You’re staying here to spy on me? Ed, don’t be such a – a prick.’ She’d never before spoken to him in that way. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to work as normal.’
‘You need to go into hospital.’
‘You just want a skinny wife who doesn’t give you any trouble.’
‘Why would you say that?’ He sounded distraught. ‘When have I ever …? Cara, I love you. And you’re unhappy. I wish you were happier. Not for me. For you.’
She didn’t know how it had happened, but they were on opposite sides of an unsolvable problem.
‘Fuck you.’ She clambered off the bed. ‘Just fuck you, Ed.’
