excerpts from Swallow

1

Miranda arranged her dolls red-haired on top, brunette on bottom, blonde in the middle. Black dolls on the outside, white on the inside. She removed their clothes and laid them in a pile on the floor. ‘Go swimming,’ she said. ‘Swim.’

From under her bed, she dragged a bag containing her mother’s old compacts that Miranda rescued from the garbage. Two lipstick stubs, one cherry red and one the rusty color of her brother’s bicycle. A mascara wand with clots on the brush. A blusher that still dusted pink. Cocoa-colored pressed powder.

She propped a mirror in the pile of dolls and raised a tube of lipstick to her mouth. The mascara wand baffled her. She didn’t see how you could do it without poking your eyes. She tried to watch her mother apply makeup, but her mother wouldn't let her. ‘I’m watching the fish,’ Miranda would say, staring at the plastic fish over the toilet, one boy fish one girl, big-lipped and smiling. ‘Get out of here, you liar,’ her mother said. ‘You’re watching me!’ Miranda would bound out of the bathroom twenty-five steps to the refrigerator for a fifteen-calorie slice of Swiss-flavored cheese, then sit down in front of the teevee, tearing the cheese into tiny bits she'd eat only during commercial breaks.

Grains of blush settled over one baby doll’s cherubic bottom. Miranda blotted her lips on the behind of a doll she didn’t like, then tossed it aside. Yesterday, she’d discovered her sister in the bathroom throwing up on purpose. How was it even possible?

‘Keep swimming,’ Miranda instructed the dolls. She took hold of a Barbie’s hair and it occurred to her. Over the trash can, she inserted Barbie’s long legs into her throat.

2

The coffee maker pisses black into its carafe. I’m impatient. I wander into my closet where clothing stickers and tags dress the wall in descending order from size 18 to 0. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, though there’s still work to do. I pull a rust-colored t-shirt over my head and wriggle into a pair of faded running pants. The coffee maker beeps, finished. I remove a mug from the continually evolving dish installation in my sink and fill it to brim. I take the coffee straight.

Ice crusts the sidewalk so I’m grateful for the tread on my new shoes when I go out to run. For an hour, there will be my eyes and my footprints, the perspiring air, and sun creeping into morning. It’s 5AM. I circuit the lake, unpopulated at this icy early hour, barreling ahead when I wish to linger. Crests of ice heap over the shore and shiny frozen sticks drape over the docks. A year ago, I would’ve been out here with my camera and tripod, crouching in plus size pants as I shot film. Today’s run would’ve given me a heart attack. Walking thirty steps from bus stop to grocery for Twinkies and cheese was my weekly exercise.

Crossing Michigan Avenue underground, I force my keys between fingers just in case I need to punch somebody. A bare bulb papered with moths illuminates an oozing condom on the ground. There’s a man in three coats using a sack of garbage as a pillow under the stairs. I walk as far away from him as I can, but he reaches up and hits my calf as I pass. I spit on him and run faster. He smells too drunk to follow.

Low clouds interrupt the skyscrapers and I count streetlamps as I approach home. Six more miles on my shoes, I punch a code to let myself in the building and once back in my studio, I pour another coffee and let it cool while I shower.

I douse my hair in scalding water, drag shampoo through it and rinse. Then I slide my hands into bath mitts so I can deal with the rest of my body without touching it directly, which is far too upsetting for this early in the morning. I slough exfoliating soap across my skin then let the stream erase it. I towel off.

Time to weigh myself. It’s too much.

Back in the closet, I select a blouse, sweater, skirt and pants. I brush the newly-grown long hair on my arm away from my wrist so it won’t show. I strap my belt across my gut, securing my loose-fitting clothes to my form for another day.

I’m hungry so I eat two grapes. Then I feel too full. I bend over the toilet, hands behind my back, contract my stomach muscles and up come the little fuckers.

Dispassionately, I paint my face in the mirror. I look Cubist, all strange angles that form a multitude of chaotic faces. I can see my own reflection cast from the mirror onto my shiny lips, but I can’t read my expression.


3

I enter the grocery-store maze decked out in my grandmother’s fur coat and lambskin gloves when everyone else is dressed for spring. I tried to leave the house in shorts but only made it half a block before returning for warmer clothes in defeat. This European-style grocery store with its narrow aisles and chic, miniature shopping carts is known for its cheese, and right away I’m confronted by it: organized by nationality, with imported and domestic varieties stacked one upon the other in bright casings and shiny wrap, the cheese draws a sophisticated crowd who have wine and baguettes in their baskets. Briefly, I wish I could swallow my fear and pick from the plethora; it would make me look less like a bag lady in a ratty old coat and more like an eccentric socialite. If I could pick a stylish wine, I would gain distinction in this store where people not-so-casually eye each others’ purchases.

But I can’t.

I pick up tofu shirataki noodles, vegetable broth, mushrooms, celery, tofu, and an indulgent wooden 1⁄2 lb crate of strawberries. Then I cruise foods I will not buy. First I breathe in chocolate in the candy aisle. The selection is ample, and the deep aroma makes me want to cry. I imagine a mouthful dissolving on my tongue, and my pulse quickens. I move on to crackers. The caloric content of this road of carbohydrates sends me reeling. I imagine the amount of calories that comprises this market and nearly faint. It must be more than one person needs in a lifetime. In my life, will I eat the contents of a grocery store at least once? How much will I eat?

Too much. Despite the throng of customers in this aisle, I sit on the muddy floor, pushing boxes of crackers deep into the shelf with my back. I reach behind and grab a box of Wheat Thins. Before anyone sees, I’ve got it under my coat.

A mother with two children in tow kneels in front of me. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. Just dizzy,’ I say.

Another woman has stopped. ‘It must be her heart. Call an ambulance.’

‘No, really, I’m fine.’ I right myself, though I feel wrong, and brush off my bottom. I know for a fact that they mop the floors in this place three times a day, but it’s raining outside and the floor is slightly muddy. At least my coat covers the wet spot.

‘I’m a nurse. Let me take your pulse.’

I cannot allow this. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m really, really fine. I forgot to eat breakfast. I have to go now.’

The mother takes a box of graham crackers from a squalling baby’s hands. She opens it, rips open a plasticized tunnel of crackers, and hands me one. ‘Eat this,’ she says.

‘Thanks.’ I take a bite but do not swallow. ‘I’ve got an appointment to go to, thanks again.’

Once out of their view, I spit the cracker into a tissue and line up at the checkout. Please, please let this be quick. I hide the graham cracker under my strawberries in case one of those women sees me not eating it. I watch my produce head down the interminable conveyor belt into the hands of a plump cashier. ‘Soup for supper?’ She’s actually jovial. ‘Right,’ I say. I wonder if she guesses with everybody. It must pass the time.

Outside, birds out of a Disney movie bob on a wire, their songs unbearably loud. I turn the corner and head to Washington Square park where I sit on an icy bench and throw Wheat Thins to pigeons. When the box is empty, and without eating a single one, I head home. The day is growing darker.

8

Are my thighs touching? I know he's between them, but are they touching? I’ll spread my legs wider. Is my stomach concave? Does he notice my hip bones? Do they hurt him? I want to be sharper. Are my breasts bouncing? Is my belly? I’ll suck it in more, though it’s difficult to breathe and suck in at the same time. I flex my muscles against him. He moves his hand onto my stomach—oh God, anywhere but there—and says he likes this. Can he tell I’m holding it in? He’s probably just trying to reassure me. I bet he's lying so I don’t push him away and get up off my back and go smoke on the fire escape. I’d like a cigarette, I'd like to watch the moon and my smoke hang in the tilt-a-whirl sky. I’m so dizzy. I know my ankles look good. Why doesn’t he look at my ankles? He’s watching it go in and out; fuck, he can see my thighs, they’re touching aren’t they, I know they are. My stomach is jiggling, I’m jiggling all over, I try to make myself hard hard harder—he can, why can’t I? If only I could be, I dunno, like a giant prick, perpetually hard. I can’t keep my eyes closed. I have to know what he’s doing. Is he watching my face? Fine, well then I’ll shoot him a porn star lick o’ the lips and a sexy wink. I’ve learned to wink sexily. Has he still got his eyes down there? OK, then I’ll spread my legs wider—but he jams them together, fuck, what am I gonna do? My ass pools around me. Oh God, he can see that and I can’t very well suck in my ass. I clench all my muscles as tensely as I can. One two three four five six whimpers from him and I roll over, pull it over me and love against the white soft sheet, finally safe.

13

In therapy, we’re working on Understanding the Impact of Cognitive Processing on Mood. When I have a negative thought, I’m supposed to challenge it with a question. For instance, I’m supposed to ask, ‘And what is the evidence for that?’ I decide this is especially useful for conversations, so I use it on my friends, and floor them to silence. It doesn’t work with me:

‘My thighs are too fat.’

‘And what is the evidence for that?’

‘Well, look at them! I’ve gained fifty pounds!’

My therapist is too indulgent and applauds me for asking the question at all. I see no point in doing so, and curtly dismiss my own questions. My therapist, who drinks regular Coke, not Diet, assures me that gradually, I’ll be unable to ignore the questions so easily.

She encourages me to, eventually threatens to stop working with me if I don’t attend an eating disorders support group. Before the group, I eat dinner. I have a problem with that, especially because I get carried away, and dinner is half a burrito as big as my head, and a bag of chips.

So I take myself to the toilet to empty out, and I discover that tortilla chips, when purged, come out in long, half-inch tubes. I’m fascinated, and I wonder how long of a tube I can make without breaking it.

This takes a long time, because the bag of chips was big, and a burrito half the size of my head, which is a large head to begin with, is in there, too.

I check my watch.

‘For the love of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ I tell myself. ‘Stop making yourself throw up. You’re going to be late to the eating disorders support group.’

Then, weak from effort, I find insane humor in the situation. I put my head on the toilet and laugh.

At my next session, I tell my therapist, and God love her, she isn’t supposed to, but I can tell she is trying not to laugh. She doesn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, just looks at me, and I see that she knows I’m real.

39 (excerpt does *not* appear in the Swallow chapbook; it is part of an ongoing project to expand this into a conventionally publishable work.)

I’m in a taxi, on a day pass. I’ve just returned from: toffee almond bar, chocolate bark, Slurpee, croissant, quiche, buttered popcorn, five million calories, flush. How many calories did I rid myself of? My pulse has slowed and I’m flying the temporary high from purging. I have an idea.

Daffodils. There are eight other girls on the ward, ranging between 12- and 25 years old. I’m 30. I’ll win them over through pistil and stamen. I’ll need 8 dozen blooms, 96 flowers. Where can I get 96 daffodils? My breath stinks sweetly of vomit. I chew a strip of sugar-free gum.

‘Pull over,’ I instruct the driver. ‘Wait here; I’ll be back.’ My voice is still hoarse.

I explain to the saleswoman, who wears a tunic dotted with daisies not unlike a nurse’s, with white sneakers that reveal two inches of skin between the hem of her blue broadcloth pants, and the pants are too tight, so I kind of instinctively gasp—is this where I’m headed? I tell her I need 96 daffodils divided by the dozen into the cheapest vases sold here. She places a plastic vase on the counter. ‘Comes in 12 different colors,’ she says. ‘Perfect,’ I tell her. But after five minutes of 'I just want to look around some more first,' I can’t decide on a color. I go with white. The flower lady even has boxes sized to hold eight vases, like the paperboard trays I handed out the drive-thru window at Burger King so beverages wouldn't spill on drivers' laps.

The taxi driver’s listening to Madonna’s ‘Human Nature’ when I kind of kick the door to get his attention because I need assistance getting in. It doesn’t occur to me until we’re halfway back to the ward that I could’ve said something instead, as he’d left the window open with his dark knotted arm like a sure root draped alongside his cab.

*

‘Janis! You’re back! Everyone’s in group now so—oh, what have you done, with all these flowers, what are you doing?’

‘They’re for the others,’ I shrug. ‘May I put them in their rooms?’

I see the thought pass through her head: ‘Are daffodils poisonous? Will any of the girls try to eat them? Will I be held responsible if one of them dies?’ But Letitia likes me, will take risks for me. She accompanies me into each room so I can place the daffodils on each girl’s nightstand.

Group’s just letting out as I adjust the blooms in the last room. The girls return to their suites and exclaim. They want to know where the flowers came from. Letitia tells them. One girl screams, ‘You went into my room for that?’ A moment later, her $1.99 plastic vase cracks against the common room wall, bent flowers obscene against the green carpet.

Letitia crouches to gather up the vase and fallen flowers. ‘Do you want them, Janis?’ I shake my head. Emily, the screaming girl, is sedated. A girl who has never before spoken to me puts her arm around my waist. ‘Emily had a hard time in group today,’ she says. I nod, uncomfortable. She can feel my fat. And that’s none of her business. Emily having a hard time in group is none of my business.

‘Ladies, it’s dinner time,’ head nurse calls. With blatant reluctance, the girls gather in line for the cafeteria. I linger behind, staring at the wet spot on the carpet. ‘Janis, come on now.’

‘I ate a lot on my day pass,’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Janis, you know that’s not going to fly. It doesn’t matter. You’re to eat three full meals a day at the ward plus snacks. You know the consequences. It’s your choice.’ I’m standing so I see the profiles of every girl in line; a cubist parade. I can’t let them see what I’ve chosen for my meal.

‘I’m not hungry!’ Several heads swivel to face me and even I am surprised by the death in my voice.

‘Is that a no to your dinner then?’ Head nurse has a spiraled plastic key ring around her wrist. She fumbles for the dining room key. Ironically, food is kept under lock and key here.

‘Yes, it’s a no,’ I’m standing on the wet spot across from Emily’s room, lifting and lowering my feet, making a squishing sound.

‘Go back to your room then and I’ll be ‘round to tube you.’

Emily moans something from her room that ends in ‘Janis’ and sounds hateful. Letitia, in the room with her, admonishes—I can tell by her tone, though I can’t hear the words. Carefully, so carefully, I lift my toes and turn on my heels creating a terrible screech with my sneakers, before exiting stage right to my room.

*

The windows here are protected by carefully spaced bars. Because I was told my 91-year-old grandmother has stronger bones than I do, I tried breaking my wrists between the bars. The space between is bigger than both my wrists put together, yet smaller than my head. I’d tried breaking my neck in this way, but that didn’t work, either.

Right now, the other girls, beautiful, beautiful—whose ribs can be seen through their blouses, whose spines rise like mountains or seams down their backs, are in the dining hall. You can tell what time of day it is here; by scream and sob, mealtimes pass. Because I’ve refused my supper I’m sedated on haldol. Shortly, I’ll be force fed through a tube.

When she comes, head nurse brings one of the plastic roses from the cafeteria. ‘You didn’t buy yourself any flowers, did you, Janis? I knew it.’

‘I’m not into flowers,’ I say. ‘I’m allergic. Thank you for yours, though. It won't make me sneeze.’

‘Janis, sit in the wheelchair.’ She’s never been in my room before and is eyeing my models. I know she’s deciding whether to have them removed. I chose the most emaciated ones from the magazines for art therapy, glued them to a round piece of cardboard the size of a large pizza. I formed it into a ‘no’ sign over the models, and was praised by my art therapist for my efforts. All I wanted was successful women in my room, since the successful women here won’t speak to me. I’m too fat for treatment, really.

Head nurse has decided not to comment on my project. ‘The wheelchair, Janis,’ she repeats.

‘I don’t need a wheelchair,’ I say. ‘I walked around all day, on my day pass.’

‘All the more reason for you to sit now. Besides, you’re on the haldol, aren’t you? I’m surprised you’re even awake. For your sake, I wish you weren’t.’

‘I’ll work on it,’ I say. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

‘We’re on a tight schedule, Janis. I’ve got one other girl to tube after you.’ All tube feedings must be completed within the allotted mealtime hour.

‘It’s Emily, isn’t it?’ She would’ve missed mealtime by being sedated. I’m honored to share tonight’s tube feeding extravaganza with the most successful anorexic on the ward; so successful she broke her arm reaching up for her calcium tablet.

‘Janis, you know I can’t tell you who the other young woman is.’

We have to wheel by Emily’s room. Low moans, almost sexual, escape through the closed door. I wonder whether Letitia is still in there. She shouldn’t be. She’s my nurse. I have chosen her and I wish to be chosen back.

40 (excerpt does *not* appear in the Swallow chapbook; it is part of an ongoing project to expand this into a conventionally publishable work.)

Hands dry, and hungry, I approximate my anorexic self through makeup. Trouble is, I’m no longer anorexic, or 25, and the 5 dead years have taken their toll on my face. Wrinkles under my eyes collect rivulets of concealer that I blend several times and still cannot contain. My grey eye shadow is like an oppressive mother or communist housing. Liquid eyeliner lends a doe-eyed look that the plumpness of my face can’t sustain, and can I really take two coats of mascara these days? Is it overkill? I don’t have visible cheekbones to highlight with blusher, and applying it accentuates that fact. Foundation—the same powder coverage I used in my birdlike days—adheres to blemishes on my face and emphasizes those instead. Maybe I need cake foundation at this point. Perhaps my face is the reason women wear it. The sparkles in my ‘Orgasm’ lip gloss settle into the puckers of my lips. I am not dewy or va-va voom, and my date is due any minute. My hand, on its way to the remover, hesitates; I decide to leave this be.


41 (excerpt does *not* appear in the Swallow chapbook; it is part of an ongoing project to expand this into a conventionally publishable work.)

Just-cut-yesterday hair, unmarred by the sleep I didn’t get, swings against my cheek as the bus sways between stops. My red nails shine under a beam of morning light on the safety bar as I clutch it and a bagged honey bran muffin in one hand. My shoulder bag slips down my arm each time the bus halts, and the metal chain jingles around my other wrist, which rests on a seat back to steady me.

I smell like lemons. At three I bathed in citrus purifying salts, then dried off with clean towels. At four I commenced makeup application: a two-hour affair. After much deliberation, I selected my shades for the day: neutral browns, one gold pigment, chocolate liner and black lengthening mascara for the eyes; a brick red blusher to be swept sheer across the cheeks; and a pale pink lipstick to match how I have paled.

A man gestures to me and then to his empty seat; he’s leaving the bus. He stands in the aisle to prevent anyone else from taking the seat until I get there and thank him. With 20 minutes to go before my downtown stop, I reach for my muffin just as a very slender and tall woman stands next to me, draping her arm over the safety bar. Her eyes dispassionately scan for signs of passengers preparing to vacate their seats. Silk flows over her barely-breasts and does not conceal the sharp rail of her spine. I stare, shoveling muffin into my mouth that isn’t reduced fat.

It’s 7 when I arrive at work, and I’m not due until 8. There’s a restroom that was originally designated for janitor use in the 1920’s—but janitors don’t use it now. The toilet is stained from years of improper cleaning and its seat is chipped into a discolored mosaic. The sink faucet has mineral deposits around the rim. I’m the only one who stocks the restroom with toilet paper and paper towels; and I may be the only one who uses it at all. I wad up toilet paper and throw it in before purging on top of it until I see blood, just to be safe. The toilet swallows. I am glassy eyed and white retouching my makeup as the morning sun falls on me through squares of rippled glass. This is the only time I can bear myself in the mirror. I spit Listerine into the sink.

My boss says she’s pleased to see me and compliments my soft pink dress, selected to match my lipstick. On my desk she has piled reports to be proofed before lunchtime, which means lunchtime is two hours later than usual. I don’t mind. I smile at her, cautious to cover my teeth with my lips knowing that the enamel is worn away. As I work I watch the lake—just a few thousand feet and 59 storeys between us. I’m surprised that a spider can survive so high up here in a corner window web on the other side of the glass.

At 2PM, I carry my salad to the sculpture in front of the building where everyone sits to eat lunch. Today my salad is too heavy for me to possibly eat. Last night I spent an hour picking, washing, and chopping the vegetables to just the right size. I bagged a few nuts and sunflower seeds for protein, and poured measured salad dressing into a tiny Tupperware container. The fork I brought to eat it with is real silver.

There’s a beggar down the block who I happen to know is vegetarian. I’ve seen businessmen buy him hot dogs then curse at him when he demurred. I plan to offer the vegetarian man my salad. At the stoplight I adjust my stockings, which I bought in a too-large size in case I gain weight.

Looking past my shoes, I see a dead pigeon at the curb. Recently struck by a car, the contents of the pigeon’s stomach are displayed before it in a trail that leads several thin inches away from the bird. A few crumbs of baked goods, some digested food now turned into fluid. Seeds, mostly.

The light has changed. People stream past me, rushing to the other side. I’ve dropped my weighty salad. Businesspeople circumvent the bird and I with our messes. The bird’s eyes are still open. I kneel to meet them with mine.