3

Every Wednesday evening and every other weekend, Marcie and I visit Pa. He picks us up in his white Rabbit, usually more than a few minutes late. It’s usually a pretty fun time. We get to do things with Pa we don’t do with Mom, like go out for dinner or go to the mall. He’s got a real TV, too, with cable. And we get an allowance: two dollars each weekend, one to keep and one that goes into our own savings account.

One weekend, we go to Grandmère’s for dinner. A side effect of the handful of adult aspirin I take each morning is that my appetite is pretty non-existent. And, though I don’t say anything, my stomach hurts sometimes when I eat. I serve myself a lot of corn, taking the smallest piece of sandwich steak I could. It’s not that I don’t like sandwich steak, but that it hurts so much to chew. And I’m not supposed to chew with my mouth open, but sometimes I have to. It’s a gamble whether or not Pa’s going to notice and yell at me. It all depends on whether he’s in a good mood or not.

I don’t really understand what’s going on, but I know both Mom and Pa have lawyers now.

After three spoonfuls of corn, I’m full. I was full after the first bite, but kept eating until I felt like I was going to burst. But when Pa sees my mostly-full plate, he starts yelling.

The world changes. His lips are still moving and that vein in his forehead is pulsating, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I say something to defend myself—that I’m full and really can’t eat anymore—but the words leak from my lips without sound behind them.

He walks away from the table and tells me to stay right where I am. I just want to freeze this moment or fast-forward until I’m home at Mom’s tomorrow. Anything but whatever he’s going to do when he comes back.

He storms into the room, brandishing a piece of construction paper like a weapon.

On this paper is a drawing divided by a line down the middle. On the left side at the top are the words “Tania: weak at 38 pounds”. Underneath is drawn a stick figure with an IV hanging out of its right arm. On the other side of the paper is a similar drawing of a stick figure, but this one has muscles. And it’s titled “Marcie: strong at 55 pounds”.

“You have to gain 20 pounds this month or you’ll always be weak,” he informs me, as if gaining that much weight would be incredibly simple and easy to do.

Frustrated tears burst from my eyes, but I’m careful not to let them stain the paper, this evidence of my weakness.

“How can I gain 20 pounds in one month? I can’t do it!”

I sound like a whining baby. I’m a weakling. If I only tried harder, maybe I’d be healthier like Marcie. Maybe I can gain 20 pounds in one month if I really tried.

“That’s not enough! You need to gain one pound a day for a month!”

It’s just a rage now. I want to believe that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. I try to reason with him.

“I can’t do that!”

“DON’T TELL ME YOU CAN’T!” He yells, each word slapping my face, injecting me with the knowledge that somehow I’m choosing to be sick.

“Think positive! Do you want to always be sick? Is that what you want?” He points to the drawing of me. “If you don’t gain weight, you’ll end up like this! Look at Marcie! Don’t you want to be healthy like her?”

I ignore the pain in my stomach. It’s easy to ignore it now. Maybe I deserve that pain after all. Maybe it’s been my choice all along.

I say nothing and start eating the sandwich steak. I let the pain in my jaw punish me.

When he drives us home to Mom’s the next night, he puts on a tape especially for me.

Positive—it´s the better way to live!”

I don’t let him see me cry. And every weekend after that one, we listen to that song.

After a month, I only manage to gain 5 pounds. But he doesn’t bring it up again, and I don’t remind him. I don’t need the extra reminder of what a failure I am and how I’m going to grow up to be a sickly person with an IV always hanging out of my arm.