Chapter 37 #2
Avoiding the path to the kitchen that required me to open a door, I walked around to the side that faced the family room and paused in front of the pantry.
My imagination was already carbo-loading with visions of bagels and breakfast cereal and honey mustard pretzels.
My hand twisted the handle and inched open the door, pausing as it creak-eak-eaked.
A voice spoke from the darkness of the family room.
“Whatcha doin’, sport?”
A cold knife of fear stabbed through me. “Nothing,” I blurted out, stumbling back from the pantry.
Hank sat in the recliner facing in the opposite direction, the crown of his blond head just visible above the headrest.
“I don’t think you wanna do that.”
My gaze fell on the hand slung over the armrest, the loose fist dangling a clutch of rope.
Why did he have that? What was he planning to do with it?
My feet were already moving beneath me, carrying me back out of the kitchen.
Without a word, I raced upstairs to my room, locked the door, and pulled the covers up over my head. Shaking, but no longer thinking of food.
During lunch period the following day, I went into the front office and asked if I could use the phone to call my mom. “Everything okay?” the school secretary said.
“I just need to talk to her.”
“If you know her number.” She lifted the handset onto the counter.
Mom answered after the first ring, her voice tense. “Hello?” She was a worrier by nature, always on guard for tragic news.
“It’s Emmett.”
“Honey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
I paused, noticing the secretary listening in. I turned and stepped away from the counter. “It’s Hank again.”
“Fuck. What is it, what’d he do?”
“He didn’t give me any dinner last night.”
She gasped.
“I went down for a snack like you said and he was there. Waiting.” I didn’t mention the rope. It was so strange, part of me wondered if I hadn’t imagined it.
“I’ll call Mrs. Dasko right now, ask her to get a few things. Stop by her house after school. Make sure you have space in your backpack.”
“You mean hide them in my room?”
“Don’t let him see. I’ll try to be home tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow? Why not tonight?”
“I just need some time away, honey. You’ll be okay. I gotta go, but I love you.”
Her love was getting harder to stomach. I hung up.
Hank was in the backyard when I got home, crouched over the planter with pesticide and pruning shears. Along with my weight, the garden had become his obsession. Even in the cooler months, his tropical hibiscus, birds-of-paradise, and banana palms flourished.
I headed upstairs, intending just to stash the snacks under my bed, but even though I’d had a good lunch, the urge to eat was strong. I opened a family-size bag of Ruffles and dug in.
The bag was all but empty before I rolled it up and stuffed it back under the bed along with the other snacks I’d gotten from Mrs. Dasko on the way home from school.
An hour later, I was glad I’d eaten. Although I envied Hank’s spaghetti and meatballs, my salad was enough, and there was plenty still waiting for me upstairs.
“Can I be excused?” I said, eager to get back.
A flicker of surprise behind his eyes. Perhaps he thought the diet was starting to grow on me. “Sure, sport. Rinse your bowl in the sink before you go, huh?”
I slept in until past ten the next morning. It was a little strange that Hank had let me. In his house oversleeping, even on weekends, was frowned upon.
When I came down, there was a bowl and a box of cereal on the kitchen table.
“You’ve been doing so well on your diet,” Hank said behind me, “I thought I’d cut you a little break.”
Now I was regretting eating half a package of Chips Ahoy! before coming down.
I approached the table and shook some Honey Bunches of Oats into the bowl. “Not too much,” he said. “A cup is a serving.”
I poured some back into the box.
“Say, sport, after breakfast maybe you oughta get out of the house for a bit, get some exercise. Maybe go down to Target and get yourself some of those Pokémon cards you like.” He pulled some money out of his pocket, raised it, and left it on the counter with a wink.
Once he left, I saw it was a twenty.
Something didn’t feel right. He was being too nice: letting me eat, giving me money. He never gave me money.
Still, a new pack of Pokémon cards was hard to turn down.
After breakfast, I got ready and set out.
It was a two-and-a-half-mile walk, about an hour’s journey, but not as bad as running laps.
It was less strenuous, and I didn’t stick out as much at this pace.
Between the nice weather and my music, it was almost a pleasure. Maybe I could do this more often.
The Pokémon cards were a bust. All duplicates except for a Torchic. Oh well. After a short break with a cup of water from the café, I returned to Whispering Tree Lane.
There were no vehicles in the drive when I got home. Hank must’ve gone out. I left his change on the counter and went upstairs, tired and ready to eat.
Crouching in front of the bed, I bent down. My breath hitched.
The snacks were gone.
Hank had found my stash. That must’ve been why he sent me out: he’d suspected something was up and wanted to have a look.
The garage door rumbled beneath me. I parted the mini blinds and saw his Toyota Highlander pulling into the drive.
I yanked the bedroom door shut and locked it.
I paced around, waiting.
Though I heard him downstairs, he didn’t come up. He seemed to make a couple of trips between the house and the car—ferrying groceries? It was unlike him not to make me help.
I remained in my room for hours, scared even to use the bathroom.
I was on my bed playing Game Boy at the lowest volume when finally there came a knock at the door. I tossed the game, scrambling back against the headboard.
“Hey, sport,” Hank said, “you in there?”
I hesitated. “Y-yes.”
“Dinner’s just about ready. I think you’re gonna like it.” His voice was upbeat, unthreatening. Somehow it was worse than if he’d yelled.
“Okay,” I said.
I washed up, dragging it out. My hands red and raw by the time I finished drying them. Still, part of me was ready for dinner, even a salad. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. After all that exercise, I was starved.
My mouth fell open as I entered the kitchen.
The table was laid as if for a king. Every dish Hank had previously flaunted was present and then some: cheeseburgers, French fries, spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, pizza, burritos, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese. All my favorite foods in the world.
He was taunting me. He would make me watch him eat all this, as punishment for sneaking food. But in front of my seat, instead of the expected bowl of salad, was an empty plate. The glass didn’t even have water in it.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Hank said, approaching the table with mashed potatoes and gravy.
“What is all this?”
“Dinner. Just thought with all that walking, you might’ve worked up an appetite.” He sat, scooted his seat up to the table. “Don’t tell me you already ate?”
I didn’t speak. He served himself from a bowl of salad, the lone spot of green. His lips were stretched into a smile, but his blue-green eyes shone dull as sea glass.
“Sit.”
I was too nervous to move.
“Sit down!” he roared, pounding the table.
I sank hurriedly into my seat.
“Serve yourself. Eat.” No longer yelling, but the pretense of a happy family meal was gone.
I filled my plate, taking a burger and a box of fries, two pieces of fried chicken, a slice of pizza.
I ate them down quickly.
“Good job, sport,” Hank said, returning to his good-stepdad voice, reaching over to clap me approvingly on the shoulder. “I knew you had some room left in the tank.”
My skin crawled at the place where he touched me. He seemed to know it, letting his hand linger.
At last he pulled it back and picked up his fork.
“Why don’t you have some more.”
I filled my plate again, ate.
Halfway through third helpings, my gut’s soothing fullness turned sharp and uncomfortable. I slowed but didn’t stop, finishing what was in front of me, as I was programmed to do.
“More,” Hank said.
“I’m getting full—”
“More.” Another slam. The dishes leapt.
Head bowed, I took some salad, hoping that would go down more lightly. It hurt.
“More.”
Genuinely sick now, I stared at the food, then took the smallest scoop of mac. “Here, let me help you with that,” Hank said, taking the spoon from me and scooping a gigantic portion on my plate. Another burger, more chicken.
“I can’t—”
“You’re gonna eat it,” he cut across me, burying the plate under a mountain of food. “That’s what happens when you don’t know when to stop. You eat and eat until you die.”
Fear clenched my heart like cold latex hands. I was certain now he was going to kill me.
When the plate couldn’t hold another bite, he pushed it back my way. “Dig in.”
I shook my head, fighting back tears.
“You’re telling me this isn’t what you wanted? I tried to help you, sport. Tried to teach you when enough was enough, but no. You wanted to sneak snacks into your room. You wanted to kill yourself with food. So do it.”
I watched him, not moving.
“Need some help?” He grabbed the burger off my plate. His eyes flicked over it appraisingly, as if he was considering taking a bite himself. Then he smashed it against my mouth. “Eat it!”
I had to stop myself from sinking my teeth into his hand, sensing that this time he would retaliate. Taking the sandwich from him, I bit into it, chewed obediently, tears running into the ketchup smeared on my cheeks. It went down like cement.
“Another.”
Acid fountained up my esophagus. The food, too, was inching back up.
“I’m gonna throw up.”
Hank thrust an empty bowl into my hands. I turned away from the table and heaved, splattering the bowl with meaty beige slop.
At some point Hank had gotten up; he was behind me. “Good boy,” he said, massaging my shoulders. “Get it all out.”
I hurled until I thought I had nothing left.