The Hunger (6 page)

Gramma Pauline was born in 1916—right in the midst of the worst assaults on the Armenians in Turkey. How could an Armenian baby have been born at that time? Paula couldn’t imagine the conditions that must have confronted her own great-grandparents.

Erik exited from the site back to the list of hits. This time, Paula chose one called “Armenian genocide: personal narratives.” Erik clicked on that site, and a page worth of names popped up, each one leading to a personal story. Paula chose one close to the bottom of the page and read how the writer’s great-grandmother had been sold to a Turkish family and worked as a slave. One phrase at the bottom of the narrative stood out. The woman said, “When Hider was planning his genocide in the 1930s, his rationale was, ‘Who today remembers the Armenians?’”

That same quote. Paula was stunned by it because
the woman was right even now. Who today remembers what happened to the Armenians? Not her history teacher, and not the school librarian either. Even Gramma Pauline, who had been through it, said she had only sketchy memories.

“Do you think Gramma was one of the Armenians going through all of that?” asked Erik as he scrolled through story after story.

“She was,” replied Paula. “And she was just a child too. Can you imagine how horrible her life must have been?”

“No,” said Erik. “Sure puts our problems in perspective.”

“You’re right,” said Paula. “It’s not like we have life and death situations to deal with.”

Erik closed Netscape and disconnected the modem, then popped in the
Civ II
CD.

“Are you starting a new game?” asked Paula, still trying to shake the frightening images from her mind.

“Yep. I can customize it. Any suggestions?”

“Sure,” said Paula. “Can you make us the Armenians?”

“When you customize the game, you can be anyone you want.” Erik scrolled through the options one by one. “Okay,” he said. “We’re the Armenians, and you’re Paula, leader of the Armenians.” Erik scrolled through other choices, “What do you want the
temperature to be? Cool, temperate, or warm?”

“Let’s make it warm.”

“Okay. How about the climate? It can be arid, normal, or wet.”

“Let’s choose arid.”

“Okay. What other civilizations do you want?”

“Can we choose Turks?”

“Nope. That’s not one of the choices. Even if you customize the game, you can only choose from the game’s list of civilizations for everyone but your own.”

“Hmmm,” said Paula. “Then why don’t we make the other civilizations the English, Germans, and Russians.”

“Okay.” Erik could hardly contain his excitement. It was like the old days with Paula sitting here, playing a computer game with him.

“What level are we going to play it on?” asked Paula.

“We’re sure not going to play it on ‘king’ again,” he said. “Level one is ‘chieftain.’ It’s way too easy. Maybe we should play it on ‘prince,’ which is one level down from ‘king.’”

“Sounds good,” said Paula. Then she watched the screen as the game computed all the choices that they had made.

The screen went black except for a couple of green squares in the middle. As Erik made moves with his mouse, more squares opened up. “Good!” shouted
Erik. “At least we’re not an island this time.”

“Are you looking for a good place to put your capital city?” Paula asked, remembering how it worked in the original
Civilization.

“Yes. I want to put it somewhere on land, not close to an ocean because you can get attacked too easily if it’s close to an ocean.”

“What about here?” Paula pointed to a flat area of land close to a river.

“That’s pretty good,” said Erik. “It’s got the river, making it easier for irrigation and transportation of resources. That’s actually a very good site. Thanks, sis.”

Paula sat and watched as her brother flashed through turns. He played the game so rapidly that she had trouble keeping track of everything he did. As the land masses revealed themselves, populations increased and years went by. The form of government changed from despotism to monarchy, and technology evolved through ritual burial, writing, literacy, iron working, invention of the wheel, horseback riding. Paula’s eyes glazed over as she watched the choices flicker by. They played until Paula detected the sharp smell of burning kasha. She ran downstairs to see if she could salvage supper.

Friday, October 2, after school

Paula didn’t go directly from school to the clinic. She stopped at home and drank six huge glasses of water, only stopping when she thought she might throw up. She checked her weight on the scale in her room and was gratified to see that it showed her at 128. Rooting around in her sock drawer, she pulled out a set of flexible wrist weights. She slipped these on and found a long-sleeved sweater in her closet and pulled it over her head, rolling the cuffs to hide the weights.

“One hundred and thirty one pounds,” declared Dr. Tavish.

Paula smiled to herself. For once, the scales had become her ally.

“I still want you to come in next week, Paula,” said Doctor T, writing out instructions on a prescription sheet. “And this time, I’ll come out with you to the nurses’ desk and help you schedule that appointment.”

Paula rolled her eyes in disgust, but followed behind him.

Friday, October 9—122 pounds

Paula always felt cold. Throughout most of September, the weather had been moderately cool, and Paula’s layering of clothing for warmth and
subterfuge had gone unnoticed. But Indian summer had arrived with a vengeance, and today was unseasonably hot. Paula dug through her drawer and found a wraparound denim mini skirt that had been one of her favourite pieces of clothing just a year before. She held it up to her waist and walked to the mirror, chuckling at how huge the skirt looked now. She could still wear it, but it would require a lot more “wrapping around” than it did last year! Before she put it on, she stepped onto her scales and was delighted to see that the weight was still coming off. She hoped that the weather would cool down by her four o’clock appointment with Doctor Tavish; otherwise, he’d be suspicious of her bulky clothing.

When Paula walked into the kitchen that morning for breakfast, her brother Erik was sitting by himself at the table, immersed in his portable video game. His bowl of Cocoa Puffs was pushed to one side, the cereal bloated with neglect. Her father had already left for work and her mother was still in the shower. At the sight of his sister in her revealing outfit, Erik dropped his Game Gear on the table with a clatter.

“When did you get so skinny, Paula?” he asked.

Paula flashed him a hurt look and then walked over to the counter and poured herself a cup of black coffee.

“I’m serious, Paula. You look like that mother we found on the Internet last night.”

“That’s a nasty thing to say to your sister,” Paula
replied, then took her mug back over to the table and sat down. For several minutes she simply sat there, breathing in the aroma of fresh coffee. Sometimes, she thought, smelling was as good as eating.

When she slipped home just before her four o’clock doctor’s appointment, Paula realized she had a problem. Temperatures had remained high all day and there was no way she would look normal wearing bulky clothes. Where could she hide her weights? Her sessions had been going on for a number of weeks, and as the time passed, Paula had become adept at hiding weights in various places within her clothing. Doctor Tavish had congratulated her on maintaining her weight of 131 pounds. This feat of deception became harder as her real weight declined.

Paula forced herself to drink more water than she ever had before—nine glasses! And she felt like she could barely walk without slishing and sloshing. She fanned out her array of weights on the bedspread and tried to decide which ones would be most hideable under light clothing. In the end, she wore a five-pound belt tied around her waist and underneath an untucked blouse.

She stepped on the scales. One hundred and twenty nine. Good.

Paula rarely had to wait more than fifteen minutes for her session with Doctor Tavish, but today he
seemed to be taking forever. By the time the clock showed 4:30, Paula was in agony. She had to go to the bathroom or she would burst. Clutching her stomach, Paula walked up to the nurses’ desk and asked Nancy how much longer the doctor would be.

“Oh Hon,” said Nancy, looking up a stack of forms. “He got called out to deliver a baby and he’s been behind schedule ever since.”

“Maybe I should skip this appointment and come back next week,” said Paula, trying her best not to hop from one foot to the other.

“No,” said Nancy. “Doctor T gave me specific instructions. He told me to ask you to wait. He’ll be no more than another fifteen minutes.”

Nancy watched as Paula ran to the bathroom.

Knowing she couldn’t hold it any longer, Paula peed what felt like gallons of water. As she sat on the toilet, she considered her options. If she took off without waiting to see Doctor T, he’d call her parents. If he saw her and weighed her as usual, he’d discover her deception.

Paula’s only solution was to drink more water before she was called in for her appointment.

When Paula left the bathroom, she made a beeline for the cooler in the corner and rapidly downed half a dozen tiny cones of water—equaling about one glass of water at home.

As she waited for the seventh to fill up, she heard
Nancy call her name. “Damn!” she muttered. There’s no way I’ll weigh enough. She quickly gulped a last cone of water, then followed Nancy into one of the examining rooms.

“You must be thirsty today,” said Nancy. Paula could only hope that she wouldn’t mention anything to Doctor Tavish.

As Paula sat on the edge of the examining table waiting for the doctor to arrive, she breathed a nervous sigh. She knew that this was the day she would be found out. After a few minutes of waiting, she heard low voices just outside her door. Nancy tattling on her, Paula thought with anger.

Doctor Tavish tapped on the door, then opened it a crack. “Paula, I’d like you to change into a hospital gown for your weighing today,” he said. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to enter.”

A hospital gown? Paula lifted one of the worn blue gowns from a pile on the table and held it in front of her. This was worse than she had imagined. Paula couldn’t possibly hide her waist weight in an open-backed hospital gown.

She was trapped.

Paula threw the blue gown onto the floor of the examining room and opened the door. “Screw this,” she thought. “No matter what I do, they’re going to tell my parents.”

She walked down the hallway, passing Nancy and
Doctor Tavish, who were huddled in deep conversation. Doctor Tavish looked up as Paula walked past him. “Hold on!” he said. “We can help you.”

“I don’t need help,” said Paula, as she walked out the doors of the clinic.

Paula was thrown into another state of hungered frenzy. She ran home from the clinic and opened the pantry door. She pulled down the coffee canister and pried off the lid. “Damn, damn, damn!” There was no money.

Paula loped up the stairs to her brother’s room at the end of the hallway. She opened his door and was relieved to see that he wasn’t there. “He must be late with his fliers,” she considered. It was almost five o’clock. Later than usual for her brother to be gone. She lifted up the bottom corner of her brother’s duvet and groped under the mattress, looking for his stash of bills.

“Ouch!” she yelped, withdrawing her hand. A mouse trap dangled from her index finger. “You jerk,” cried Paula. Leave it to her brother to protect his money with a lethal weapon.

Paula pried her finger loose and threw the trap on the floor into a pile of her brother’s clothing. “I hope you step on it, you little twerp,” she muttered under her breath.

She dashed down the stairs and ran into the kitchen, opening the pantry door wide, looking for
something, anything to gorge on. But her mother’s diet regimens had stripped the selection down to only the barest of choices.

Paula grabbed a bag of brown sugar, the canister of flour, a package of lard, and some chocolate syrup. Getting out a bowl and her trusty wooden spoon, she dug out a dollop of the lard and dumped it into the bowl. She mixed alternating spoonfuls of flour and sugar, stirring all the while to maintain an icing-like consistency. When the full container of lard had been worked into the mixture and most of the sugar was gone, Paula squirted a stream of chocolate syrup over it. Paula dipped her spoon into the sludge and filled her mouth.

At precisely that moment, Paula’s mother entered the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Her mother walked over to where she was sitting and grabbed the wooden spoon away from her mouth. She dropped the spoon on the table, splattering Paula with the chocolatey mess. Paula didn’t know whether she was more stunned by the confrontation or by the simple fact that her mother was actually home before 6.

“I... I’m … hungry,” she said quietly.

“If you’re hungry, I can make you something healthy.” Mrs. Romaniuk’s voice had a shrill undertone of panic. She walked over to the pantry and opened it much like her daughter had done moments before.
Scanning the shelves for something to offer, she said, “I can warm up some soup. Or how about crackers? There’s cheese in the fridge. I know we’ve got apples.”

“Forget it, Mom. I’m fine,” Paula said, pushing the bowl of calories away from her.

Emily Romaniuk walked back over to the table and sat in the chair across from her daughter. “You’re not fine,” she said. “I got a call from Dr. Tavish today.” Tears welled in her eyes as she continued. “When he told me he was calling about you, I was so afraid that something serious had happened to you, and then when he told me it was about your diet, I was confused. He says you’re anorexic with bulimic tendencies. Is that true?”

“No, it’s not true,” said Paula. “He thinks I should weigh more, that’s all.”

“That’s not all, honey,” responded Mrs. Romaniuk. “Dr. Tavish told me that we should all go into therapy.” With that, her voice cracked, and Mrs. Romaniuk held her face in her hands. “How could I let this happen?”