Skinny(26)

“The good news is if you can pour it, you can eat it. According to the doctor’s info, if you can suck it through a straw and it’s about the consistency of pancake batter, you can have it.”

“That’s good news?” I ask.

“What did you eat last week?”

“I didn’t eat. I drank my meals. Clear liquids.”

Rat types away on his computer, mumbling, “Good, good.” He pauses and flips through the papers in his hand. “Let’s see what’s on the menu for week two. Broth, cream soups, diet popsicles, watery grits, oatmeal, or cream of wheat. Then we can start to work in mashed-up foods in weeks three to six.”

“Yum,” I say, frowning. Six weeks seems like a really long time without chewing.

“Now we work on the attitude and the exercise.” Rat closes his computer and stands up. “Come on.”

I am still wary the pain will surprise me when I get out of bed, so I move carefully. I push the covers slowly back from my legs. I’m wearing gray stretchy sweats and socks that Charlotte helped me put on before she left for work. I wondered why she was so insistent about helping me get into the clothes and so determined to brush my thick tangled hair up into a ponytail. Now I realize she was trying to make me presentable for the dog-sitter.

Rat reaches behind me to push gently against my back, supporting me, while I sit up slowly. There is an intense, pulling tightness at my stomach, and I stop to breathe in deeply. Once. Twice. The pain pills are working, but I still murmur an “ouch” as I stand, wobbling only slightly. I shuffle out slowly to the top of the stairs with Rat and Roxanne close behind. Rat holds my elbow and I step gingerly down each step, one at a time. At the bottom, we turn around and I start back up again. Roxanne is thrilled with the new game. She accompanies us every step of the way, ball in mouth. After two very slow trips up and down the stairs, I’m allowed to sit down on the couch.

“And now . . .” Rat picks something up off the coffee table and waves a DVD in front of my face, “your reward.”

I’ve never been a big fan of movie versions of musicals, always preferring the stage, but Chicago is about as good as it gets. I smile at Rat and settle back into the cushions of the sofa.

“You put it in, and I’ll get us a snack,” he says.

He comes back in a few minutes with a bowl of clear brown soup and a sack full of microwaved popcorn. I push play. My brain says I’m hungry. My hands want to put something in my mouth, but my throat won’t accept it. I take a spoonful of soup. I feel like I’ve just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner. I need to eat more. I take another spoonful. I almost can’t swallow it. I push it down my throat. It stops somewhere near the middle of my chest. This can’t be it. I have to eat more. I watch Rat put handfuls of popcorn in his mouth. The smell is incredible. My hands twitch to pick up a handful. What do you do when you watch a movie? You eat popcorn. That’s normal. But I’m not normal now. He chews, and I swear I can hear every crunch. I can’t hear the dialogue. All I can think of is what popcorn used to taste like. He glances over at me, realizing I’m watching him.

“This bothering you?” He talks around the last handful of popcorn he put in his mouth seconds ago. I don’t have to answer him. “Sorry.”

He puts the popcorn on the coffee table, and I feel guilty. He shouldn’t have to pay for what I can’t do anymore.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m going to have to get used to it.”

I’m actually starving. My body knows it’s consuming itself, my mind knows it, too, but there is nothing I can do about it. I sip the Diet Coke in front of me. I can’t take another sip. My throat rejects it. It won’t go down. I’m like a cup of water that’s completely full. Not a single drop will go in. I’m not sick like throw-up sick. It just won’t go into my body. So it comes back up. I run to the bathroom and cough up a small drop of soda into the toilet. I come out of the bathroom to find Briella in the living room.

“How was school?” Rat asks her.

“Okay, I guess,” Briella answers. She kicks off her sandals and walks over barefoot to the popcorn bowl. Scooping up a handful and stuffing it into her mouth, she plops down onto the couch beside Rat. “English is going to kill me.”

“Not your best subject?”

“I don’t think I have a best subject.” Briella frowns. “At least I’m not the only one struggling with English. You should have seen Chance today.”

“What happened?” Rat doesn’t look at her. Briella pulls out her phone and starts texting.