Hunger (2 page)

"So? Some part of you sees yourself as a bad guy."

"Apocalyptically bad? That's crazy." Right. She was just suicidally bad.

Tammy shrugged, taking her last cookie from the plate. Lisa knew it would be the last one; Tammy ate twenty cookies, like clockwork, unless she also spread frosting on them. Then she maxed out at twelve. Lisa knew; she counted things. "Part of you thinks so," Tammy said around her mouthful of chocolate-chip sweetness. "That's the Columbine in you."

Lisa glanced at her friend. "The what?"

"The deep down, angsty part of you that wants to take your rage out on the world at large," Tammy said, obnoxiously chipper. "Your own personal Columbine. That's what your Famine is. Your subconscious just wrapped the rage up in a food image, instead of a freak-with-a-gun image. You relate better to food, that's all."

Troubled, Lisa put the empty mixing bowl and spoon into the sink, squirted in some liquid soap, and ran the hot water. Watching the bowl soak, she thought about Tammy's words. She knew she had rage inside of her—real rage, not the momentary flare-ups she had whenever James or her mother got under her skin. Yes, that anger was inside of her ... somewhere. Lately, it was hard for Lisa to feel much of anything.

No, she could feel, all right. She felt fat—and so empty inside. That emptiness echoed through her even now, chilling her, leaving its damp and dank impression upon her skin, upon her soul.

A soap bubble drifted up, joyous, glistening in the afternoon light cast through the window by the sink. Lisa watched it dance in the air as she heard Tammy chug down the last of the milk, and she blinked when the bubble popped into nothingness. She didn't realize she was crying until a tear hovered by the corner of her mouth. Her tongue poked out, lapping at it greedily; salty sweetness, pure, calorie free.

"Back in about twenty," Tammy said, scraping her chair on the wooden floor.

Pulled out of her pensive reflection of loneliness, Lisa said, "Use the bathroom upstairs. The one down here's getting clogged easily. Grab the Lysol, though."

"Yes, Mom."

Off Tammy went to take care of her afternoon snack, and Lisa set to cleaning the mixing bowl. Even after eight months of knowing Tammy, Lisa still held the girl in awe. Where Lisa was high strung, Tammy was casual. When Lisa worried, Tammy laughed. She exuded self-confidence—a sort of power—that Lisa would never possess.

As with food. Lisa could never get herself to bring anything up. The one time she'd tried, she'd felt as if she were choking. Her fingers had squirmed there in her throat like sausages jumping on a hot skillet, and she'd chickened out before she could do more than cough up the first gut-wrenching spray of bile. She'd scrubbed her hand ten times and gargled with Listerine for two minutes. She hadn't told Tammy about her colossal failure. How could she? Tammy was disciplined when it came to food. She could bring up a doughnut in thirty seconds. Not that Lisa had ever seen it, let alone timed it. But Tammy had told her so, proudly, back when they were first sharing their secrets all those months ago.

Yes, Tammy was disciplined—not like Lisa. For Lisa, it was a constant struggle.

She scoured the mixing bowl until her fingers pruned. She turned off the water and placed the mixing bowl and wooden spoon in the drying rack. Maybe one day, she would be able to control her body the way Tammy controlled hers.

Maybe. She hoped.

The timer dinged, and Lisa pulled out the cookies from the oven and placed the baking sheet on the stovetop to cool for a minute as she put the final pan in. She hummed, softly and out of key, as she slid the hot cookies off the baking sheet and onto the cooling rack on the counter. She couldn't have told you what she was humming, and because of how mournful it sounded, you probably wouldn't have recognized it.

Gingerly placing cookies onto the rack, Lisabeth continued humming a broken and bleeding version of the "Sesame Street" song that almost, but not quite, masked the sounds of Tammy retching upstairs.

***

"Hey, Princess. Hi, Tammy."

"Hi, Daddy," Lisa said, giving Simon Lewis a welcome-home peck on the cheek. He had a balding head, a trim beard, and kind eyes. Not too tall, not too short, he was incredibly average, from his build to his clothing. Lisa thought he was perfect.

"Hi, Mr. Lewis." Sitting at the breakfast nook, shuffling a deck of cards, Tammy gave him a carefree wave. "Lisa baked cookies. There's plenty."

"I can see that," he said with a laugh. To Lisa he added, "You know your mother would read me the riot act if she caught me sneaking a cookie."

"It's not sneaking," Lisa said, offering a plate of cookies. "I'm giving them to you."

Her father relented and took two. "I have to finish up some paperwork, so I'll be upstairs. I was thinking Chinese for dinner. Sound good, Princess?"

"Sure," Lisa said.

The Thin voice whispered,
Brown rice, one hundred thirty-five calories. Steamed broccoli, two cups, fifty calories. One bite of chicken, thirty-six calories. Two hours on the exercise bike.

She'd have to put in extra time during her evening workout, but that was doable. Besides, she liked opening the fortune cookies.

He looked at Tammy. "You'll stay for dinner, of course?"

"Wish I could," Tammy said, sounding sad. "But I promised my mom I'd be home for dinner."

That was an utter lie; Tammy's mother was away for the weekend. But Lisa didn't call her on it. While Tammy had no compunction about eating in front of Lisa, she didn't like to eat around other people. It made Lisa feel privileged to be one of Tammy's trusted confidantes.

"Next time, then," Mr. Lewis said.

"You bet, sir."

Lisa's dad went off to do his paperwork, and the girls shared a he's-a-sweetie look. Tammy had told Lisa months ago that she preferred Mr. Lewis over her own father. "Your dad's cool," she had said back then. "He's smart and funny and charming, and he actually listens to what you tell him. Bet he doesn't get all absorbed in whatever sport's on TV, or red-faced about the morons in the office."

"My dad's perfect," Lisa had replied. Perfection, though, could be incredibly tough to emulate, let alone please. But Lisa kept trying. One day, she'd make her father proud. Her mother, on the other hand...

Lisa's stomach roiled, bringing with it a hint of anger. No, she wasn't going to waste time thinking about her mother; she had better things to do.

She sat on the stool opposite Tammy as her friend started to deal out the cards. Cutthroat spades. Good times. Lisa said, "Your mom's cooking, huh?"

Tammy actually looked chagrined. She shrugged, her smile sheepish. "Yeah, well. I love Chinese food. I'm not about to pig out in front of your dad. He'd lose his impression of me being all ladylike."

"I swear, you have a crush on my dad."

Ew, gross.

"You are so Nabokov."

"As if. I bet his back's hairy," Tammy said, her eyes sparkling. "I don't mess around with guys who have back hair. But I bet your dad is a good kisser."

"La la la," Lisa said, covering her ears, "I can't hear you..."

Tammy finished her water. "Besides, he's happily married. I'm not into married guys."

"With back hair," Lisa said, thinking about her mom and dad and wondering, not for the first time, if her parents were, in fact, happily married. Her mother was supercharged and always running from one place to another—like this weekend. Which fundraising effort was she attending this time? Breast cancer research, supporting the troops, feeding the hungry ... After a while, it all blurred. There was always a cause for her mother to rally behind. And the cause was always far from home. Her dad, by contrast, was more of a slow, steady person, a homebody. Dependable. Mom was the sports car; Dad was the all-terrain vehicle.

It doesn't matter
, Lisa told herself. Either her parents were happy together or they weren't. Lisa didn't want to think about it anymore. Instead, she focused on playing cards.

In a little while, Lisa's dad came back into the kitchen and got Lisa's dinner choice (H4 on the takeout menu: steamed chicken and broccoli, brown rice), called in their dinner order, and gave his daughter a kiss as he left to pick up the food.

"He's cool," Tammy said.

"Yeah."

"Just not in a doable way."

"Oh God." Lisa, appalled, tried to scrub away the image of her father and her friend going at it like rabbits. "I'm going to have nightmares now." Right up there with her being Famine.

"Happy to contribute to your therapist's bills. Anyway, I'm off." Tammy slid down from her stool and grabbed her leather jacket from where it hung over a kitchen chair. "You coming over tomorrow?"

"One o'clock," Lisa said, agreeing to their usual Sunday time. "I'll bring cookies."

"You're a goddess." Tammy waved and opened the back door to let herself out. Lisa got up from her stool to see her friend off.

It was already bordering on darkness outside; evening came earlier and earlier with every passing day. But even with the dim light and Tammy partially blocking her view, Lisa saw the horse. It stood there in the garden, black as burned toast and tall as anything. It looked directly at her, its white eyes glowing, steam blowing from its nostrils.

Lisa let out a startled gasp.

"What? What is it?" Tammy looked out, obviously trying to see what had made Lisa react as if she'd seen a ghost. "Leese?"

"There, in the garden! The horse!" Lisa pointed, her hand shaking.

Tammy now stood completely in the doorway, blocking Lisa's view. Hands on her hips, she looked out, her posture defiant. After a moment, she said, "There's nothing out here, Leese."

Lisa nudged her way in front of Tammy—and stared directly at the horse.

"Your eyes are playing tricks on you," Tammy said.

Her voice small, Lisa said, "You don't see it?"

"Wish I did. A horse, here in your backyard? How cool would that be?"

Staring at the black horse, Lisa didn't think it was cool at all.

The horse cocked its head, then dug its hoof into the soil. Clearly, it was impatient. Based on how it was glaring at Lisa with those creepy white eyes, it was impatient with
her.

"Sorry," Tammy said, "no horse here. I'll see you tomorrow. Tell James I said hi."

With that, Tammy walked out of the doorway, sauntering directly past the black horse. As if they'd previously agreed to terms, both the girl and the horse ignored each other; Tammy walked quickly in the cold evening, and the horse stared at Lisa.

Her breath caught in her throat, and Lisa realized she was about to scream, so she slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing too fast. She was sweating now.
Seeing things
, she told herself.
Just seeing things.

Calming herself, she looked up. And she saw the Scales of Famine on the kitchen table.

This time, Lisa screamed long and loud.

Her voice gave out, and her mouth gaped as she stared at the set of scales on the table.

Oh God, it's real, it's real, it's real.

She stared at the metal balance, its plates gleaming, beckoning. If not for her nightmare, she might have guessed that the object was just an eccentric centerpiece.

For an unknown amount of time, Lisa balanced on the precipice of madness. Her world consisted of the Scales in front of her, and the threat of the horse outside, and herself, cowering by the back door. She remembered the delivery man from her dream, her nightmare, with his cold voice and colder words.

"
For thee. Thou art Famine.
"

No
, she thought frantically, her heartbeat a climbing gallop.

"
Thou art the Black Rider.
"

Now her chest hitched, and she couldn't take a proper breath.
Please, no.

"
Go thee out unto the world.
"

Lisa tried to laugh, tried to scream again, but her throat constricted and her protest died on her tongue.
I'm losing my mind
, she thought. And she was right.

But then the Thin voice saved her.

Hershey's Kisses
, it whispered.
Twenty-five calories each.

Lisa took a shaky breath.

Hostess CupCakes, one hundred eighty-one calories, six grams of fat
.

Lisa exhaled, slowly, and found that she could think again.

The old-fashioned balance stood on the kitchen table, mocking her with its very presence. Its plates reflected the overhead light, sparkling like metallic laughter.

It was laughing at her.

Part of her flinched, wanting to run to her bedroom. But a quiet part of her—the part where the Thin voice lived, perhaps—resented being made to retreat inside the safety of her home. Though the refrigerator magnet said
SANDY'S KITCHEN
, Lisabeth knew, felt, that the kitchen was actually her own. This was where she made coffee for her dad every morning. This was where she carefully packaged a lunch that she brought to school, stuffed with negative foods such as rice cakes and celery. This was where she chopped and sauteed and sliced and mixed and baked. This was the place where she exerted control—if not necessarily over her body, then over the foods she prepared for herself and for others.

No one made Lisa shrink away from her kitchen.

Strengthened, Lisa took a step forward. Then another. And then she strode over to the table and reached out to touch the Scales.

The back door opened, and her father called out, "Soups on!"

Lisa whirled around, startled.

"Hey," her father said as he deposited an overstuffed brown bag on the counter. "What's that I see?"

Lisa looked at the table, an odd mix of guilt and anticipation rising in her chest. She said nothing as she waited for her father to pronounce her sane by confirming the presence of the Scales.

"You didn't set the table."

Lisa's mouth opened, then closed. She glanced over her shoulder at her father, who was looking right at the table. If he noticed the large balance smack dab in the center, he chose to keep the revelation to himself.