Page 73 of Guy's Girl
Her bedroom doesn’t have its own bathroom. If she wants to pee, she has to use the powder room in the front hall. Eszter keeps it locked. Ginny has to ask for the key if she wants to use it, and then Eszter stands outside and waits until Ginny is done. The door is thin; if Ginny throws up, Eszter will hear it.
Ginny is alone in Beatrix’s room right now, writing about breakfast in the little butterfly notebook. Adrian asked if she wanted company, and she did, but she said no anyway.
She doesn’t know why she’s writing any of this down. She’s barely written at all since leaving Minnesota, and it’s not like she has any story ideas. But, to be honest, there isn’t much else to do in this house. All the books are in Hungarian. The TV barely works, and only shows Hungarian cable television anyway. Adrian seemed displeased about that; he talked about it with his grandparents for a long time. Ginny could tell because he kept pointing over at the old set, and she thinks she heard the wordDisney. She’s sure they’ll have a brand-new flat-screen by the time he leaves, whether they want one or not.
But, for now, there’s nothing to read, nothing to watch. There’s just Ginny and her notebook. And her anxiety, which keeps trying to remind her about the eggs and toast she just put into her body.
She’s tired. So, so tired.
She thinks she’ll take a nap.
***
Ginny has to eat lunch, too. She was hoping she’d sleep through it, but when she shuffles out of her room at two o’clock, Eszter has a sandwich waiting. She sets it down in the breakfast nook and pulls out a chair, gesturing for Ginny to sit.
For a while, Ginny just stares at the sandwich. She doesn’t particularly want it, but she’s equally afraid that, once she starts to eat, she won’t be able to stop. She will go for the cabinets. Eat the potato chips and cookies and anything else she can find. Wipe their kitchen clean.
After a few minutes, Adrian walks down the staircase. “You’re awake,” he says.
“I’m awake.”
He sits in the chair opposite hers. He doesn’t say anything, just sits with her. She starts to eat. She moves slowly, tearing off the crusts. It takes a while, but she eats the whole thing.
After lunch, they play cards. Adrian teaches Ginny a Hungarian game called Snapszer that uses cards with Roman numerals. She doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but it occupies her mind as she tries not to think about the food stewing in her stomach. That’s all she can really ask for.
When they finish the game, Ginny fetches the notebook from inside her bedroom and returns to the living room. Adrian is in front of the television, fiddling with its antennae. He turns around when he hears her enter.
When he sees the notebook, his eyes light up. “You’re writing again?”
“I guess,” she says. Then she lies on the floor and starts a new entry.
Adrian doesn’t say anything while she writes; but every coupleof minutes, she feels his eyes flick over, searing her cheek with just a glance.
I think writing is the only form of communication in which I can truly say what I mean. When I speak, I feel like a broken dam—my words are spilling water, with a life and purpose all their own. I have no control over where they will go or what they will destroy along the way. But when I write, I have time to think about exactly what I want to say. To place every letter, every comma, every colon exactly as I intend. I control my words; I control myself.
I’m scared to eat dinner tonight.
Eszter has been cooking for practically the entire day, and whatever she’s making smells incredible. Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.
Anyone with an eating disorder knows that nights are worse than days. Especially if you tend to restrict. By the time the sun sets, you’re like a bear coming out of hibernation. Your body needs food, and it needs food now.
If I’m being honest, I haven’t eaten much today. A few bites of breakfast, a sandwich with no crusts. To my anorexia brain, that feels like a lot, but I’m cognizant of the fact that it isn’t, really. I’m hungry. And the better the house smells, the hungrier I get.
***
Dinner goes surprisingly well.
Ginny is careful. She eats only half of what she is served, and then she sits on her hands. She can feel the beast trying to edge his way through to the surface. Can feel her brain starting to dart back and forth, taking in all the serving platters, all the options on the table. She feels it happen, and she wrestles it back under control.
Maybe this will be easier than she thought.
I just binged. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
At around eleven o’clock, I got hungry again, probably because I didn’t eat my full dinner plate. So I went out to the kitchen to look for a snack. I found a jar of peanut butter. I like peanut butter. I opened the jar and ate three spoonfuls. Then I shut the jar, put it back in the cabinet, and got into bed. I’ll just eat that, I decided.
For thirty seconds, I lay in bed, thinking about the taste of that peanut butter on my tongue. How smooth it was. How creamy. The taste played like a loop in my head, a siren’s call, beckoning me back out into the kitchen.
Fine, I decided. I’ll have just one more spoonful.
