The Hunger Strike

            The moment you taste the vomit in the back of your throat is the end; but you already knew that. It burns there, and you ignore it. The disappointing thing about expectations is that sometimes they come true. Sometimes everyone behaves as though they knew what they were from the beginning. In this moment, the argument over nature versus nurture will play through your mind and you will know that it is neither, but something else entirely different. It is something that swells in your brain, both there and not there, that accounts for the decisions we make. You watch your limbs moving in this moment and have trouble believing that you would ever do these things to yourself; but there it is.

            Of course, your body knows before you know. The knowledge of this reality is as old as anything has ever been. Your chest waits for the blow that is coming; it’s not a physical blow, but then emotional pain has always had a place in destroying the human spirit. You put your hands up to block it, but you feel it anyway. The crush starts from the inside and works its way out. Your fingers shake as you wipe the sweat from your forehead. It takes over every part of your brain until it seems like someone is beating the rhythm of this feeling into your skull. You finally surrender yourself to it, and let everything go.

            And then it stops. The wave passes as quickly as it came. You become hyperaware of the tiles beneath your knees. They press into your skin and try to make their mark. Your shaky legs press into the ground and try to raise your body up. You feel the blood rush from the top of your head down to your feet. The thing that whispers in your ear and tells you about your needs has been quieted for the moment. You want to enjoy the quiet, but it is, in its own way, deafening. You place your hands over your ears, and things get a little better.

            You rise from where you knelt on the ground and breathe deeply. It is your first deep breath in a long time, and it transports you far away. This air fills you and comforts you and makes you believe that things might be okay; but this peace is momentary, and soon your insides are twisting again.

            You flush the toilet in front of you and watch as your dinner swirls away. Then you walk to the sink and wash the vomit from your hands. You scrub them with soap twice, but the smell lingers. You glance up at yourself in the mirror, and the banshee that meets your gaze scares you. The dark pockets under your eyes and the sheen of sweat on your forehead tell what has just happened. You know that as soon as your mom sees you, she will know, too. Or at least, she would have before.

            You wash your mouth out next. The water tastes a little like the rusty pipes it was fed through, but that is a better taste than stomach acid. You swish the water around and through your teeth, and then spit it back out in the sink. You are disturbed by its reddish-orange coloring, but it is quickly gone.

            Flicking the water off your fingers, you grab your purse from the hook on the door. Your body feels violated, but you also feel the cathartic release that this ritual always provides. Your hands are still wet when you grab the door handle, so you wipe them on your jeans and then head out.

            What you notice first is that the pace of conversation hasn’t slowed. Here everyone addresses each other as if the world didn’t stop when you were in the bathroom. At first, the noise hurts your ears, but you quickly adjust to it. It’s not hard. This is a skill that is a requirement of being in your family. You can turn down the noise at will and focus on the sibilant tones of one person. This time it is your brother’s voice that cuts through it all. You walk back to where you were sitting at his side and suddenly you don’t know what to do with your hands. Your whole body is exhausted from the effort of throwing up, and your arms hang at your sides like two dead fish. You think this might be suspicious, so you nervously pat your purse with one hand.

            You reach your seat, and your brother is in the middle of a story about college. These stories make you feel alternately relaxed and sad, but right now you are glad for them. You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and look down at your plate. Now that you have seen what your dinner looks like mid-digestion, the food in front of you is much less appealing. You spear a piece of noodle and chicken with your fork, but when the smell of the sauce wafts up to your nose you almost lose it. You quietly set your utensil across your plate and try to join the conversation occurring at your right.

            “. . .but of course we couldn’t do that, so we ended up going to the grocery store,” your brother, Brian, says. His words are directed at the man across the table, who is your uncle, and his wife. You refuse to think of her as your aunt. Her hand reaches up to her hairsprayed updo as she listens and searches for an errant hair. The corner of her right eye twitches and her hand lowers to pat her stomach. The bright red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of her make her someone that you would normally be drawn to; however, there is a way that she looks at you that you don’t like, and it has made you form an unearned narrative about her past. You always want to grab her and shake her, but you haven’t done it yet. Brian continues, “You should have seen the look on the checkout lady’s face! I’m sure we were the first guys to ever come in there wearing Tigger onesies.”

            The uncle and his wife wait for a moment as they ponder whether or not the story is finished. Then your uncle slaps the table with one hand and says, “Boy, you sure are one funny dude! I was never doing anything like that when I was in college. Of course, a lot of that has to do with the infantilization of this generation. We would never have had the time to pull a stunt like that . . . When I was your age, I was already holding down a full-time job and trying to earn a living for my expecting wife.”

            You feel your irises float up towards your forehead. You have heard this lecture on the crisis that is your generation before. Your uncle likes to take up the subject whenever he detects a tenuous link to it.

            “. . . of course, that was before I met Holly, here.” He glances at the woman seated next to him. “I had no idea the life that was in store for me when I was your age,” Your uncle looks back at your brother, “but I was still taking on responsibility the way any man should.” You grab your napkin and cough into it. A bit of leftover vomit stains its milky white fabric. You carefully push your hand underneath the table and drop the napkin to the ground.

            “What about you, sugar?” It takes a moment to register that your uncle is addressing you. “Have you figured out ‘what you want to do with your life’ yet?” His nostrils flare and you know this isn’t a friendly question.

            Your lips part as you begin to answer. A hundred excuses hang on your tongue, and yet none of them seem ripe for this moment. The urge to crush him runs through you, to make him regret ever condescending to speak to you, but again you realize how tired you are. You want to go back, unnoticed, but it’s too late for that. You begin, “I—“

            Then you hear your name and your head instinctually snaps in its direction. Your mother’s eyes burn into you and she summons you with the crook of her finger. You stand up and resent the scraping sound your chair makes against the floor. You walk to her side and crouch down.

            “Uncle Bob’s getting into the wine,” she says by way of greeting. She indicates him with a pointer finger. “I told you to watch for that.”

            You lift your hands at your sides in a helpless gesture. “What was I supposed to do to stop it?”

            She sighs loudly. “I don’t know,” she says, “but now things are going to be a mess when we try to get him home.” She grabs for her own glass of wine and takes a few gulps. You notice that the skin on her hands is starting to wrinkle. This is the only sign of a stressful life on an otherwise immaculate woman. Her eyes only look tired because you know she is tired.

            “It’ll be okay,” you say. “We’ll figure something out.”

            Your mother nods and looks over at your father. He is starting to stand up, wine glass in hand. You and your mother both know what’s coming, but you watch it happen anyway. “I think, now that we’re mostly through our meal, it’s time I raised a toast. To my beloved daughter, Gracie.” He raises his glass to the opposite end of the table, as do the rest of your family. Only your great aunt looks on disapprovingly. In her eyes, your family doesn’t need another excuse to drink. You look at Gracie. She should be shrinking bashfully into her seat, but she isn’t. Instead, she sticks out her chest and smiles the smile of a woman who has never been wronged. “We are so proud of you, sweetheart. May this year only be the beginning of your successes.”

            “Here, here!” one of your uncles yells. Everyone raises their glasses and begins clinking them against one another. Your lonely wine glass sits untouched. You feel a burning in your stomach and one of your hands clenches. Gracie’s requisite blush has appeared on her face as she forces her expression into the picture of humility. You lean against the back of your mother’s chair for support.

            “What are you doing?” she says. “Get back to your seat.”

            You don’t know why you still follow her commands, but you do. You trudge back to the place from which you were summoned and once again find yourself at your brother’s side. “And that’s when we decided to open the second box of wine!” he says, but this time you can’t figure out whom he’s talking to. Your uncle and his wife are having a heated argument that they’re trying to hide from the rest of the family.

            You scrape your fork’s tines across your plate and wish you had faked sick for this dinner. The cousin at your left is having an animated conversation with the person next to her about your sister’s new job. Gracie was promoted within two years of working PR at a wine company, and so she is the talk of any of the family who knows what is good for them. Your cousin gestures often.

            “I don’t know how she did it,” she says, “but then, Gracie has always been able to get her way. I always thought she would be a success in the corporate world.”

            You don’t hear a response, so you look over at the person your cousin’s talking to. It is another woman, maybe a few years older than you, who is leaning forward and holding onto the table as though it might desert her. She nods in what she probably thinks looks like agreement, but it really looks like resignation. Your cousin is too busy listening to herself speak to notice this, and continues her monologue. One of her hands moves in a wide arc and knocks into her water glass. It doesn’t stand a chance; it falls over towards you and spills all over your plate. You look at it and feel grateful that someone else ruined your food.

            “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” your cousin yells. The volume of her voice attracts looks from other family members around the table. “Here, let me help you!” She reaches towards you with a napkin, not seeming to realize that the water didn’t touch you.

            “Don’t worry about it!” you say, jumping up; but she continues to reach for you, so you push back your chair and walk behind her. “I’m just going to get cleaned up, or something.”

            You pretend to wipe at your clothing as you make your way down the table. You catch Gracie’s eye as you walk. She stares at you, frowning, and then takes a sip of her wine. You stop walking.

            “What is it?” you say.

            “Nothing,” she says, and the corners of her mouth continue to slide down.

            “No really,” you say, “what did I do this time?”
            She rolls her eyes and scratches the side of her face. “Nothing,” she says. “You just would find a way to make my special dinner about you.”

            You crane your neck forward. “Marcie spilled her water on me. How is that my fault at all?”

            She rolls her eyes again. “It’s not,” she says, and looks away.

            You should keep walking. “And just because we’re having this dinner because of your promotion doesn’t mean everything everyone does has to be about you.” You notice the edge in your voice, and immediately want to take this sentence back.

            “I don’t need everything to be about me,” Gracie says. “It would just be nice if it wasn’t all about you and your huge, dramatic scenes, for once.”

            “What huge, dramatic scenes?” you say, and move so that you are basically standing over one of your aunts.

            “Oh, you know,” she says. Her upper lip is beginning to curl. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

            “No, that’s not good enough,” you say. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, you’d better be ready to pull some actual examples.”
            “Fine,” Gracie says, “then let’s do examples. Do you remember my sixteenth birthday, when you decided to get drunk and throw the cake at mom? Or mom and dad’s twentieth anniversary party, when you went up onto the roof to smoke weed?” Silence has fallen over the entire table, and you are surprised that one of your family members hasn’t tried to interject yet. “Or what about my twenty-first birthday, when we all wanted to—“

            “Okay,” you say, “I get it. You have examples. But I didn’t do any of those things to hurt you or take away the spotlight.”

            “That’s kind of worse,” she says. “In fact, that’s so much worse. That means you’re just a stupid hurricanes that fucks up other people’s lives.”

            A collective intake of breath follows this statement. A few of your family members look at one another. The uncle you were sitting across from takes advantage of the silence. “Gracie, you shouldn’t speak to your sister that way. Nobody deserves that kind of talk.”

            Gracie turns on him. “Shut up, Larry, you’re not my father. Nobody cares what you think.”

            Your uncle starts to turn red and looks like he wants to say something else. Instead, you say, “Gracie, that’s not—“

            “Girls, is this really an appropriate time for this conversation?” your mother asks from the end of the table.

            You both ignore her. Again you say, “That’s not—“

            “It figures this would happen,” your cousin says. “These girls have been at each other’s throats since they were born.”

            You raise your voice. “You don’t get it, Gracie! Try! Try to put the pieces together! The reasons all those things happened wasn’t because of you!”

            Gracie’s brow is furrowed into frustration, but she looks like she’s on the verge of tears. “How am I supposed to know that? Trouble always seems to find you just when I need things to be about me.”
            You want to reach across the table and make some kind of physical contact with her. Instead, you say, “No, Gracie, that’s just when you noticed it. Trouble finds me, it’s true, and it finds me in a pattern, that’s also true. But it’s not you.”

            Gracie’s lower lip trembles. “Who is it, if it isn’t me?”

            She sniffs and you know that she must have been holding onto this for a while. Your eyes move over the table. You are met by the faces of the people you are supposed to love, who barely know you. They search your eyes and mouth for understanding, and are met by the brick wall of your resolution. You know how to hide; you’ve been doing it for years. And yet, here you are. You have never been more visible in your entire life. The knowledge of this makes you want to throw up again, but it also makes you feel in command. For half a second each, you lock eyes with everyone at the table. Only one person looks down. They know, as you know, why your behavior is reduced to this every time the family gets together. But you can’t say it. You look back at Gracie.

            “It doesn’t matter,” you say. “Please, I never mean to hurt you.”

            She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

            “I know.” You feel the muscles in your face contract as you try to fight off the pain. “Look, if you want me to go, just say it.”

            “You know I could never do that,” she says. “Our parents would never forgive me.”

            You glance over at your father and then back at your sister. “I’ll deal with them. Seriously, if you want me to leave, just tell me and I’ll go.”

            You and Gracie look at each other. The twenty-two years of your relationship bend between you. Then she says it. “Okay. I want you to leave.”

            You were expecting it as much as you weren’t. You nod once and feel the vomit rise in your throat again. “Okay,” you say. “I love you, Gracie.”

            You turn and walk out of the restaurant. Not one person in your family tries to stop you.