The Whole Bite

Shelley is an anorexic. But she is also the woman I love. One day she stopped eating and never started again. It was the day her mother told her the truth about her real father. Apparently, her father’s parents were unusually twisted and rich, and when they died suddenly in a house fire, all the surviving money needed to be divided between their two sons. Shelley’s father and his brother, her Uncle Stu, sat down to discuss the will. It was the middle of winter with a windchill below zero. And to their utter disbelief the will very plainly stated that in order to collect any money one brother would have to kill the other. This all happened when Shelley was just a baby and until that day she believed her father had died in a skydiving accident. Shelley grew nauseas and bloated with the truth. Her belly ached. She could not bring herself to touch another bite of cheese quiche, much less swallow the eggy lump already resting in her mouth like an impossible, swollen tongue. So the brothers had a very difficult decision to face. And sure enough, Shelley’s father was the one to suffer the blow. The two brothers, both terribly fond of each other, decided Shelley’s father should die and the majority of the death money would go to Shelley and her mother. Uncle Stu had no other family or friends, but he would keep a modest amount and go to China. Uncle Stu bought a gun and shot Shelley’s father, all according to plan. What they didn’t know at the time was that Uncle Stu would die that same night in a terrible collision with an overflowing dump truck. Shelley’s mother poured another glass of wine. But Shelley spit her soggy tongue-like bite on the dining room floor and has refused food ever since. Now I go visit her at the hospital, which I do every single day out of love. I didn’t understand at first why hearing this story turned Shelley into an anorexic. No one did, not even the eating-disorder specialist. But when Shelley finally opened her mouth and explained it very simply, I started to see her point. If her father’s death money paid for her food, it was like she was eating her own father. She was beautiful and stubborn, even in her shriveling, bony state. But her sacrifice was grave and foolish, and the doctors complained loudly. If Shelley continued to deny food, she would die by the end of the week. I sat stiffly at Shelley’s sterile bedside for hours as she flipped through daytime soap operas. And suddenly I had an idea. What if I go buy you something to eat? With my own money. Like a vanilla milkshake, I said. I thought perhaps she wasn’t listening. I was used to her tuning me out. But I saw the thought pass over her eyes, sending a stern shove to her belly. Or how about a hamburger and milkshake? Anything you like, I repeated calmly. She turned her head thoughtfully and nodded, which probably required all her strength. So I dashed out of the sliding hospital doors and drove as fast as I could to the nearest drive-thru. When I returned, Shelley was propped up in bed with hunger. You really love me dammit, she said. I’m sorry I was so awful to you all these years and never returned your phone calls and laughed right in your face when you brought me garden vegetables and asked me to the dance. I’m a fool, she said. Hush, I said. And I threw the burger in her lap and thrust the straw into the plastic slotted top before handing over the extra-large milkshake. She sucked on it dryly and swallowed. Her cheeks blushed a beautiful, full red. Someday I hope I can repay you, she said in a hiccup. Then she greedily inhaled her burger and sighed into the wrapper.