Fighting Weight Read online

  “Nah, unfortunately, it’s not a goat shape. Capella means goat in Latin. Some ancients thought that Auriga was a goatherd because of the crook he held, and that the Capella star cluster represented a goat being held by Auriga, that’s how it got it’s name. And how Capella became a guiding light for shepherds,” Lucky says, standing from his chair, opening one of the glass roof flaps, and setting up the telescope.

  “Oh, boo. What makes it special, then?” I ask, propping myself up on a couple of the pillows.

  “Well, it’s not only the brightest group of stars in the Auriga constellation, it’s also the sixth brightest in the entire night sky,” he says, reaching for one of the astronomy books, flipping it open to the index then finding the corresponding page before turning it for me to see. “I’d say that’s pretty cool.”

  “Most definitely,” I smile, running my fingers across the page, tracing the lines that make up the Auriga constellation and finding Capella. “Wow. It’s relatively close to earth compared to some. Capella is only 42.2 light-years away,” I say in awe, reading all the facts I can.

  “Here, take a look,” Lucky calls me over to the telescope.

  Looking into the ocular lens, I can’t keep a huge smile from my face as I stare up, seeing the Big Dipper. I find the bowl of the dipper’s top two stars, then follow them to the right, swinging the telescope to follow the imaginary line which points me in the right direction. It’s then that I find Capella, and zoom the telescope out enough to see the whole Auriga constellation, and try to decide if it looks more like a charioteer or a goatherd.

  “…Lucky?”

  “Yeah, sis?”

  “I fucking hate oranges.”

  “Ooo-kay,” he responds, his voice confused, because every week he buys them and thinks I eat them, when in reality, I just throw them out. At least, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last year. Without looking away from the shining stars, I decide to share a little piece of me with the one person I know won’t judge me.

  “The oranges. They help to mask the smell. The oils from the skins mix with the shower steam when you peel them. I used them in the dorms at school at night, then for a while when I moved back home. So…don’t buy them anymore, okay?”

  “The smell of?”

  “…” I stare at Lucky, and make the fake yakking motions again.

  “All right, Al. No more oranges,” he says playfully, shoving me aside so he can take a turn at the telescope, letting me know that we don’t need to talk about that subject anymore. He gets it.

  “Easy, pushy. I know how to share.” I elbow him in the side.

  “Hey, Al?” Lucky says, after a few beats of silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “I fucking hate oranges, too,” he says, and I giggle, loving my brother even more if that’s possible. “Know what else I hate?” he asks, and I sober, hearing his tone turning more serious.

  “What?”

  “Ice cubes.”

  I cock my head in confusion, and then make the connection. Ice cubes and Scotch; Scotch on the rocks. Lucky’s drink of choice.

  “Yeah,” I say, “ice cubes suck, too. Fuck them, and fuck oranges.” We both carry on as if we didn’t each share an extra little piece of our struggles. Some people say addiction is genetic, and I often wonder if that’s true in Lucky’s case.

  We spend the next hour looking at the night sky, and I talk a little about the songs Happenstance has been rehearsing in case we do get a shot at the audition, and how cool it would be to tour for the summer. Lucky talks about maybe taking Teresa to Quebec City for a weekend getaway, which I tell him is a great idea. Teresa is good for Lucky, and he deserves to be happy.

  What I don’t share is how I’m petrified. Afraid that I’ll somehow do something to mess everything up like Aunt Liz always said I did, and how, once again, I might let down the people I love most. I wish I could be like Lucky and have faith in myself rather than continually fighting myself from within.

  You’ll never be enough…

  11

  Alina

  The first time Lucky caught me purging was one of the worst nights of my life. The crack in his voice coupled with the anger and look of defeat on his face was heartbreaking. It pulled at something deep inside me, and although that night was probably one of the most difficult, it was also the start of getting me to where I am today. Lucky helped push me to see that I deserved better, and that I deserved some help.

  It was the Thursday before my twenty-second birthday. We’d made plans to go out for dinner with the girls and a few friends on the Saturday night to celebrate. Even though I normally hated my birthday, I was excited to be going out with Lucky and to hang out with Paisley and the others in a non-band type of gathering. It seemed all we’d been doing lately was rehearsing and bickering about how hard we needed to be working, about what gigs and auditions we needed to try and line up.

  The part I didn’t look forward to, however, was all the skillful planning a night of eating out was going to require on my part. I would need to be careful not to draw attention to my eating habits from the people I was trying to hide them from the most. Eating out takes a tight strategy, and I had been stressing about mine. I was worried about being under attentive and observant eyes as intimate conversations took place, all while sitting in close proximity. It was nearly impossible for a person like me. From planning out perfectly-timed bathroom breaks (but not so many that people would begin to notice), to being careful not to cut my food up into such small pieces that it highlighted the fact that I ate like a toddler, it was brutal. The last thing I wanted was someone to ask why I was always putting my fork down between bites, or noticing how much water I was drinking, or how many times I chewed each bite. In the end, though, it seemed my dinner plans were the last thing I should have been worried about…

  “That’ll be twelve-fifty,” the delivery guy from Guido’s says, handing me my extra-large pepperoni pizza. Handing him fifteen bucks, I tell him to keep the change before closing the door.

  Walking into the kitchen, the warm tomatoey aroma hits my senses as I take in the mass of food containers and dishes scattered all over the floor and dining table.

  Ice cream. Half a pint of Triple Brownie Overload tipped on its side, the spoon still wedged inside, waiting.

  Yogurt.

  Chips.

  Grapes. A few stems scattered on the floor by my seat.

  Strawberries. The empty Costco-sized container, demolished in one sitting.

  Cake. Less than a quarter left of the chocolate McCain Deep’n Delicious, my fave.

  Rice.

  And now—pizza.

  All scattered around where I’ve been sitting at the table and binging for the last hour, only stopping at the thirty-minute mark to purge. Now, ready for Round Two, I sit at the table, open the steamy cardboard box, and devour seven pieces of the gooey goodness with sips of water and orange juice in between, knowing they’re the key in helping it all come back up.

  I’d been told by admissions today that I was falling behind due to my absences, that I would need to make up the hours I’d missed apprenticing, and that I wouldn’t get my haircutting certificate on time. I was upset, and it had set off a huge binge/purge cycle, one I knew all too well I’d have to punish myself for later by fasting. But, for now, I just needed to gain back some sense of control.

  “You’re so fucking weak, Alina,” I chide around a mouthful of pizza, while reaching for a digestive cookie to chase it down. “Might as well just drop out and become a cashier like Aunt Liz said. Ha, if they’d even hire me. No one wants to look at a fat gut while they’re checking out. They’d probably worry that I’d try to steal their food while I was bagging it.” I rip off another slice and force it down.

  Knowing it’s time, I close the pizza box’s lid and push the box aside, deciding I’ll clean up after as I make my way to my ensuite bathroom.

  Closing the door, I look at myself in the mirror, hating what I see—the monster that I
am.

  Eyes too far apart, bloodshot, highlighted by a greenish-yellow tinge that orbits around both eyes.

  Puffy cheeks, to rival those of the plumpest chipmunk.

  And my hair, looking stringy and dry, breaking easily—always breaking, just like me.

  I sigh and grab the toothpaste, loading up my brush before taking some time and giving my teeth a good clean. With step one done in my pre-binge routine, I rinse the toothbrush. I learned early on from an online forum full of pro-“Mia” tips that brushing your teeth before a purge would help protect the tooth enamel. Whether it’s true or not, I have no clue. But I figure I might as well, right? Just in case?

  Tying my hair into a knot on the top of my head, I pull up the sleeves of the navy Mohawk College hoodie that’s become my binging uniform. I raise the toilet’s lid and start jumping up and down, hoping to mix the water, food, and OJ together so it’s easier to bring it all up. I don’t bother turning on the tap or shower this time; Lucky isn’t home for me to have to worry about. Once the familiar sick and uneasy feeling rises in my belly, I lean my body into position over the toilet, legs spread apart, my left hand on the porcelain tank. Taking a deep breath, I start to play my body like a finely-tuned instrument. I gag, retch—I even punch myself below the ribcage—until I feel nauseous enough for the vomit to explode from my mouth into the toilet. I keep flushing to make it disappear as quickly as possible, and keep sticking my fingers down my throat to make sure I’ve gotten it all, my routine working to ensure I expel everything inside me, including the hurt and disappointment. Within seconds, I feel a sense of control and power coming back to me, and I start to feel better, to feel like myself.

  For the first time in a long while, I think I’m actually done for tonight. I’ll clean up the debris in the kitchen now, rather than waiting an hour and going at it again like I have so many times before when I’ve had days like this.

  “Nice, Ali,” I praise myself, “that was a good one.” I wipe my chin with a piece of toilet tissue before placing a few sheets inside the toilet’s bowl to make sure it will soak up any film that was left behind on the water’s surface from the food’s fat. It’s crazy how much faster I’ve gotten at this whole thing. When I started years ago, it would sometimes take me well over half an hour to purge myself clean. Thankfully, I’d found that online forum, which showed me tons of tricks to use. For me, the best piece of knowledge I’d found was knowing what foods to eat and not to eat, because since I’ve started eating softer food and I’ve been able to purge so much more quickly, I’ve lessened my chances of being caught. This is especially important when I’m in social situations and have to do it fast in a public restroom or at a friend’s, when I can’t purge comfortably in my own space.

  Moving over back to the sink, I’m about to brush my teeth again when I hear Lucky’s voice.

  “Alina Jayne Cassidy, what the actual fuck is going on? Have you seen the kitchen? What the hell have you been doing to yourself in here? It’s obvious why you’re sick… why the hell would you eat all that?”

  He fires each question one by one through the door, like the rounds of a machine gun on a mission to kill. I haven’t said a word yet. I have no idea what to say, and there’s no way I can go with: “Oh, hey, yeah, sorry. I got some bad news today, so I decided to take it out on my own fat ass,” then raise jazz hands, and add, “See? I really am a stupid bitch.”

  So I don’t. I say nothing.

  There’s a rattling on the door handle, which I had locked behind me. “Ali, I swear to Christ, you need to open this fucking door before I kick it open. I’m about to explode. I need to make sure you’re all right,” Lucky says, his tone leaving no room for interpretation.

  “I can’t,” I whisper, and slide my back down against the bathroom door.

  “You can and you will. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me, Alina. You’ve got two minutes before I come in. I’m not fucking kidding around, either.” I hear a bump against the opposite side of the door. “Time starts now,” he says, and I assume he’s moved into the same position on his side as I have on mine. I almost smile at the image of us sitting back to back like when we were little. But, for the first time in our history, a door separates us. Knowing I’ve done this kills me inside and, without realizing, I let out a loud sob.

  “Talk to me. I can hear you crying. I get that you’re upset, but I need answers, Al. All that food, wasted. And those noises you were making, that can’t be healthy. Shit. I’m so mad at you right now, I’m shaking,” Lucky states, but, again…I’ve got nothing. There are so many things I wish I could say, but I still can’t seem to find my voice. Instead, I listen as he goes on.

  “Jesus, I should have known. There were signs. I fucking know you. How did I miss this? God, Alina, how long have you been hiding this?” I hear him shuffling back to his feet, a loud bang and the sound of drywall crumbling. Unable to bear the thought of Lucky hurting himself, I stand. After hearing more plaster crumbling—along with my resolve—I struggle even harder to work up the nerve to open the door. I feel frozen in place, but it’s time to let Lucky in.

  “Just…please, Ali. Open the door. Let me see that you’re all right.” Now he just sounds defeated, his previous anger evaporated.

  Opening the door, I barely recognize the version of my brother standing before me. His head hangs down, his chest heaves. His jaw is tight, hands clenched by his sides, his short dark hair a mess where it’s a bit longer on top. But when he looks up at me, it’s the tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes that do my head in.

  I’ve never seen my brother cry.

  As I stand staring, feeling a mixture of uncertainty and speechlessness from taking in Lucky’s appearance, our blue eyes crash, and I see the same concerns reflected in his eyes about me. He’s never seen me like this before, either: my hair dishevelled, my eyes as red as I know they get after every time I have a bout of vomiting, and probably small blood vessels now broken around my cheeks and eyes caused by the pressure of the heaving. Although, I’m really only guessing. Because after a purge like this, I can’t stomach looking at myself in the mirror, the shame’s too raw.

  Finally lifting my eyes back to his, I croak out a barely audible, “You’re home.”

  “Yeah,” he struggles, jaw clenching again. His eyes open wider as they roam over my face, before falling on my oversized sweater and baggy joggers. “Sure am, Alina. Figured I’d surprise you by coming home early for your birthday weekend. Guess I should have called first.” He shrugs and raises his bruised and swelling bloodied hand towards my cheek, extending his thumb to wipe off what I assume is a bit of sick that I missed, wiping it on his jeans.

  “Jesus. What happened to you? This isn’t okay. You know this, right? Please, Squirt. Talk to me. Tell me you understand this isn’t normal.”

  Fighting back tears, unable to handle this confrontation right now and too drained to deal with him, I start to push past Lucky, needing to get away. I want to avoid his interrogation, avoid acknowledging what I haven’t yet admitted to him but what Lucky already knows is true—that this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.

  “Ali, please, we need to talk.”

  “No!” I say, rushing down the hallway towards the kitchen. I gasp when I reach the threshold of the hallway leading to the open concept kitchen and living room. It’s a fucking mess, even worse than I thought. My heart pounds, registering what it must look like through Lucky’s eyes.

  “Let’s just sit and talk.” Lucky grabs my arm, and I lose it. I whip around, and his grasp falls away as I step back, shaking my head. My body shudders with each backwards step towards the door.

  “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk, Lucky. I’m fine. I had a girls night; I just haven’t cleaned up yet.” I wave my hands around the room. “Sue me.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He takes a step forward.

  “Honestly, I just ate too much. I feel much better now,” I say, and his eyes drop to the
front of my sweater where I now notice a mix of wet and dry splatterings from each of the purge sessions I’ve had tonight.

  “Ali.” He moves in closer, and I step back.

  “Why don’t I go change,” I say, a note of desperation appearing in my voice as I try to bargain with Lucky. “I’ll clean up the kitchen, then we can go grocery shopping,” I have the nerve to suggest, and my stomach rolls at the idea. No way could I realistically handle the grocery store without wanting to buy and eat enough food to punish myself severely for what’s happening right now.

  “You’re sick, just fucking stop for two goddamn minutes! I don’t even know this liar standing before me. Who the fuck are you right now?” Lucky screams, and I jump. I have never seen him like this before.

  I’m going to be sick.

  I need to get out of here.

  In no way is this what my brother deserves after everything he’s done for me.

  I can’t do this right now.

  I scream back, “Don’t you fucking get it, Lucky? I’m a failure. I’ll never be good enough. They were righ—” I cut myself off.

  “Who’s right? Who told you that? I swear to Christ, you better start talking,” he says, standing stock-still, his blue eyes blazing.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “Are you kidding me, Ali? Look at yourself, you’re fucking covered in puke! Look around you. Look at this place. It’s filthy, old food and garbage everywhere, and it smells like a bloody dumpster. This is not nothing,” he bellows at me, and I run straight for the front door, needing to get the hell away from him, from here. I know he’s right; I’m just too far-gone to care.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I hear him yell as he comes up behind me towards the front entryway. “How many days have you been like this? I should have come home sooner, goddammit. I knew you didn’t sound right on the phone. Fuckkk…” he grits, as if this is all his fault.