Hunger (9 page)

When she was thin, everything would be perfect.

Lisa cried as she put on her pajamas. By the time she'd once again covered her feet with her thick socks (better for her circulation, she'd read somewhere, and sometimes she didn't feel as cold when her feet were warm), her tears had stopped.

God, she was so tired.

She gingerly walked back to her bedroom and was dismayed to see that she had slept in; it was nearly ten o'clock. She knew she should throw on her workout clothes and climb on the bike, even before she had her first glass of water. But she was too exhausted. She'd had such odd, vivid dreams last night, something about horses and scorched food. And dying. Or maybe about death.

And scales. She remembered dreaming about scales. She let out a bitter laugh. That, at least, made sense; she couldn't remember a time lately when she wasn't thinking about her weight, or about how she needed to be thin.

Even this drained and weak, she needed to exercise. But after her bout with constipation, the last thing she wanted to do was sit on a bike seat (or any seat) for any length of time. And she was so shaky, the simple act of walking was leaving her lightheaded; there was no way she could push herself to try jogging.

Later
, she decided. She'd double her evening workout on the bike to make up for the lost morning exercise time. The Thin voice, perhaps mollified by her (slight) weight loss, agreed with Lisa's decision.

Lisa pulled on her white terry cloth robe and tied the belt, cinching it tight, to help her feel thin. Yawning, she headed toward the stairs. She moved like an old woman, but that was because she was tired and sore. She'd been sick last night; she remembered throwing up at Joe's Diner. Yes, she'd had some sort of stomach bug. Poor James had to take her home early. Frowning, she tried to remember whether they'd had a fight last night. Maybe that had been the night before.

It all blurred. Everything blurred lately. Sometimes, it was so hard to think.

Lisa sighed. She needed something hot to warm her. Some tea; yes, that would do—hot caffeinated tea, no sugar or milk, of course. But she was feeling a bit evil; she'd treat herself to one of her mother's expensive brands. As long as she moved the packets around in the box to make it look as if she hadn't taken anything, her mom wouldn't notice. Appearance was everything; that was one lesson Sandy Lewis had taught her daughter well.

Downstairs, Lisa found her father in the kitchen, seated at the table. He was dressed for work, which told Lisa that even though it was Sunday, he'd be stopping by the office. He did that sometimes. The Sunday paper was spread out before him, divided into various sections. He'd left the comics for her, as always, on her usual seat. She hadn't actually been interested in the comics section in years, but her dad never noticed that, just like he'd never noticed that Lisa actually despised all the pink in her bedroom. But Lisa didn't blame him; between working so hard at the office and having to deal with her mother, Simon Lewis had enough on his plate without keeping track of all Lisa's whimsies.

He looked up from the crossword puzzle when she shuffled in. "Good morning, Princess! You slept in today." His brow furrowed as he regarded her. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay," she lied. Usually, Lisa would have been uncomfortable from her father's scrutiny, but at the moment she was just too wrung out to care. Her head was full of cotton, her stomach was still tender (albeit demanding to be fed), and her butt was sore. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with filtered water. It tasted flat, and it was too cold. She drank it too fast; her stomach cramped.

"You should take it easy today," her father said. "You look like you're still fighting something off. Let me get you some orange juice."

One hundred calories
, the Thin voice cautioned her.

"No thanks," Lisa said, wiping her mouth. "That's a hundred calories."

Oh God, she'd said that out loud.

She rubbed her head, debated taking aspirin. Or maybe it was a caffeine headache. Yes, that was it. She made her way to the stove and grabbed the kettle. Definitely her mother's premium stash this morning.

"Sweetheart," her father chided, "everyone knows that orange juice is healthy. It's full of vitamin C."

"I'd rather eat the five oranges it takes to make one glass of juice than drink the juice," she said, more harshly than she'd intended. "And
everyone
doesn't know shit." She was sick to death of what
everyone
knew.

"Lisa," her father said, shocked.

She relented, rubbing her forehead. "Sorry. I'm just a little grumpy this morning." She tried to smile, and she ignored how it hurt her cheeks. "I guess I'm still not feeling great."

Her father smiled back, more at ease than Lisa with making everything all right again with a smile and the right words. "It's all right, Princess. I just worry about you."

That was sweet. Lisa filled the kettle and set it on the stovetop for it to boil. Then she leaned against the counter, catching her breath.

"I think you've lost some weight," Mr. Lewis said.

A surprised smile on her face, Lisa glanced at her dad. "You think so?"

But he didn't look like he was proud of her for such an accomplishment. No, instead he was looking at her critically, his hand cupping his chin and his elbow on the table. And he was frowning. "Have a seat, Princess. I'll make you some breakfast."

Her pleasure faded, and Lisa turned back to the stove. "My stomach's a little upset. I think I'll just have some tea."

"How about a slice of toast? Something to coat your stomach?"

Eighty calories
, the Thin voice warned.

Why was her dad pushing food at her? And after he'd said that she'd lost weight? Was he trying to sabotage her? The thought made her want to scream. Gritting her teeth, she said, "Maybe after some tea."

Her father thankfully said nothing as she took out a tea bag and put it into a coffee mug, but Lisa felt him watching her. It made her feel angry and mean—and so damn hungry. Yes, all she wanted to do was take out a loaf of bread and a stick of butter and eat them in huge chunks, first tearing off a hunk of bread and then gobbling the butter straight; a butter sandwich, yes, that was what she wanted, bread and butter...

The silence stabbed her. Glaring at her father, she snapped, "
What?
"

After long pause he answered her. "I'm worried about you," he said quietly.

"I'm fine. Just not feeling great. It's a bug," she said, "that's all."

The kettle sang. Lisa poured the boiling water into her cup and let the tea steep.

"Lisa," her father said slowly, his tone setting off warning bells. "Is everything okay?"

Lisa might have said something she would have regretted, but at that moment the phone rang. Serendipity. Weak as she was feeling, she still lunged to the wall-mounted receiver and grabbed the phone, realizing too late that it might be her mother again.

"Hey," James said. "How're you feeling?"

Warmth flowed through her chest and belly. His voice had always done that to her—made her feel special, even loved. So what did it matter that normally she asked herself what he could possibly see in her, or wondered when he'd finally wake up and realize that he'd been settling when he'd asked her out? There wasn't a day lately when they didn't fight over something, and usually, Lisa was the one who started it. He'd break up with her; of that, she had no doubt. He deserved better than her. But right now, she was so relieved to hear his voice that she nearly sobbed from joy.

"Hi," she said, sinking into a chair. "A little better. My stomach still isn't good," she added, thinking of her bathroom excursion.

"Sorry about that. You up for me swinging by? You mentioned something about plying me with cookies, and I'd promised you chicken soup..."

Lisa giggled, imagining him waggling his brows. She could beg off the soup, claiming her stomach wouldn't handle it—even though the thought of sipping the hot broth made her head swimmy. No, no; she was in control. "Sure. I have to shower, and I promised Tammy I'd come over at one. Want to say eleven thirty?"

"Sure," James said, sounding forced.

Normally, Lisa would have let it go, but this morning she was prickly. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm happy to ration my time with my girlfriend."

She blew out a sigh. "That's not fair. I had plans with her before I had plans with you."

"Yeah. You just spend an awful lot of time with her lately," James said. "You sure you don't want to date her?"

Don't get mad. Don't get mad.
"Do you want me to cancel my plans with her?" she asked tightly. Tammy would kill her. But ... this was James. She had to make the offer.

It was James's turn to sigh. "No, don't do that," he said, and Lisa let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I just don't know why you hang out with her so much. She can be so bitchy."

"Tammy's a friend," she said, defensive. Tammy understood her.

James backpedaled quickly, saying, "Well, anyway. Yeah, I'll swing by around eleven thirty. That's ... what, forty minutes? Damn, I have to go get the soup."

"Hey, you don't have to—"

"Of course I do," he said with a chuckle. "You're my girlfriend, and you're under the weather. Chicken soup cures everything."

Lisa smiled sadly. If only that were true. "Okay."

"I'll bring a surprise, too. Something I think you need."

Ooh. Gamely, she said, "What is it?"

Now he let out a belly laugh. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise. You'll see."

They said their goodbyes, and Lisa hung up the phone, anticipation swirling in her belly. A surprise, from James?

"That sounds like it went well."

Lisa smiled sheepishly at her father. She'd forgotten he'd been sitting there; of course he'd heard everything.

"Except for the part when you argued about Tammy," Mr. Lewis added.

Lisa shrugged. "Boyfriends and best friends sometimes don't get along."

"I thought Suzanne was your best friend."

Lisa bristled. "We had a falling-out."

"Sorry to hear that." He looked it, too. Lisa wasn't surprised; her father liked Suzanne. Heck, her father liked everyone—even her mother. He said, "Maybe you'll work it out."

"Maybe," she said, not believing it. "James is coming over in a little bit. I have to go shower."

Her father laughed, waving a hand at her. "Go on. I know how long it takes women to get ready. You know, when your mother and I go anywhere, I have to tack on an extra twenty minutes of mirror-gazing time for her, to make sure every lock of hair is perfect."

His words, probably meant to be kind, stabbed Lisa even more than the gut-wrenching pain she'd woken to. She smiled blandly and said something inane, then retreated upstairs.

But before she showered, she once again looked at herself, naked, searching out all her flaws before she stepped into a steaming jet of water and tried to scour away her imperfections.

The entire time, she thought of burned food and parched earth.

***

Lisa heard the doorbell, and she frantically tugged the brush through her hair. More strands pulled free. Combined with what she'd cleaned out of the shower drain, she was surprised she had any hair left at all; lately, she was shedding enough to be a sheepdog in high summer. Her hair was brittle, too, so she'd gone heavy with the conditioner. That had backfired spectacularly, because now her hair was limp as a dead thing. Fueled by desperation, she gathered everything into a ponytail and yanked it tight, winding an elastic round and round.

Staring critically at her reflection, she decided she liked the way the drastic pull of her hairdo made her eyebrows seem sleek and tapered. She touched up her eyeliner as her father heartily welcomed James into the house, booming something about another lifetime of servitude.

She smiled. Men were so weird.

Lisa was lightheaded, but she assumed that was from the steaming hot shower. She'd taken her time and had done a full-leg shave, even trimmed her bikini area—not that she was planning on James and her getting physical with her dad right there in the house, yuck—and then moisturized her knees and ankles and elbows. Her skin had been patchy lately, and she did her best to even out her tone.
More water
, she decided. Water would flush out all the bad and leave her with hydrated skin. She'd have to bump up her water intake to more than a gallon a day.

Going slowly, she headed out of her bedroom, only a little wobbly in her low-heeled boots. For some reason, she had Nirvana in her head, and she hummed the opening to "Come As You Are" as she made her way down the stairs.

She stopped short as she saw who was with James and her father by the front door.

"Hi, Leese," Suzanne said.

"What is
she
doing here?" Lisa said to James, pointedly refusing to look at her former friend. How dare she show her face here, after what she'd said to Lisa last week? After what she'd accused her of?

She heard it again in her mind, Suzanne's words shaky and broken with tears: "
You're anorexic, Lisa.
"

Anorexic. Please. That was just stupid and insulting. Lisa wasn't anorexic.

You're too fat to be anorexic
, the Thin voice sighed.

Suzanne said, "Leese, I want us to talk."

Despite herself, Lisa glared at Suzanne. Her former friend looked small as she stood in the doorway, bundled against the cold in an oversize muffler.
Good
, Lisa thought.
She should be cold. What she said to me was cold.

"Can I please come in?" Suzanne asked.

"No."

"Of course you can," Mr. Lewis said brightly, casting a look at his daughter. "Come on—it's cold out there." He ushered Suzanne inside, and the girl stood in the foyer next to James, looking both nervous and determined.

Lisa narrowed her eyes. "Dad..."

"She wants to talk," her father said to her, sounding curt and not at all like the perfect dad he usually was. "Surely, after being friends since you were six, the least you can do is listen."