Status: FYI: two chapters posted March 20; COMPLETED

Do Not Resuscitate

Chapter 16

“Danny, you need to eat.”

Seriously, Dad? You’re back again? Isn’t this game getting a little old? You need to eat, Danny, I put together this plate of food all by myself, Danny, the anorexics on the internet told me it was safe, Danny, you should eat it, Danny, let me leave it on your nightstand, Danny, I’m not-so-secretly hoping you’ll get your shit together and eat it while I’m downstairs with the band so I don’t have to deal with you, Danny, because that worked so well with the Frap, Danny, my parenting skills are off the charts, Danny, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes on the dot, Danny.

The same thing. Every. Fifteen. Minutes. Over the last—hmm, let me check my nonexistent wristwatch that matches my nonexistent eating disorder—five or size hours. That comes out to a grand total of ten billion times.

He needs to stop.

There’s a deep sigh, reminiscent of Mom’s sigh. It’s almost uncanny how similar they sound. Frustrated, irritated, and fed-up. With me.

“You didn’t even touch it.”

What’s been sitting on my side table this set of fifteen minutes? The fruit salad? The Greek yogurt? The Greek yogurt with assorted fruits? The crackers and sliced apple? The Diet Coke and celery with low-fat ranch dip “because I figured it would be nice to add a little taste to them”? The three-fourths cup of Special K in half a cup of skim milk? The… what else has he brought up?

It’s been a long five or six hours.

“I thought you’d like the cookies.”

I can’t imagine why.

“Do you know how long it took me to find this recipe? I’m trying, Danny. I need you to work with me.”

Bite me.

“Can’t you eat one? Brooklyn says they’re yummy.”

High praise coming from a child who’s eaten dog food and called it delicious before.

He’s silent, which I’ve learned the hard way is never good. Silence means he’s using his brain, he’s planning a sneak attack, he’s coming up with the next phase in his master plan “Ruin Danny’s Life,” he’s—

He’s sitting on my bed.

I keep my back to him, refusing to acknowledge his beefy body making my mattress dip, eyes resolutely on the curtains, even though my eyes hurt from crying on and off and the exhaustion makes them sandy.

I will not engage him.

“You have to eat dinner.”

Wow, Dad, look at you, curing “anorexia” by ordering your teenage daughter to eat. No one’s tried that tactic before. God, you’ll get the Daddy of the Year award for sure. You can put it in that box in the attic. You know the one: full of the stupid I Love You, Daddy pictures and #1 Dad ribbons I made in elementary school. Forgotten, molding, useless.

There’s a metaphor there. I’m sure of it.

“Please, Danny.”

Are you still here?

“The guys left.”

You say that like it’ll solve my problems, like the reason I’m not eating is because you had people in the house, like kicking them out—because, let’s face it, they’d be with you in the studio all night if you didn’t make them leave—will bring me intense relief and I’ll be able to devour the food you brought up. Dad, I can binge eat the entire fridge and throw it up with Mom standing outside the bathroom door, telling me I have fifteen minutes to get in the car or I’ll be late for school and you’ve been in the bathroom for an hour, Danny, you don’t have time for this.

“Do you want Brooklyn?”

Don’t start with me, Dad.

“I can get her. Would that help?”

Go away.

He waits. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. He expects me to do something, anything, as a response, but I won’t. I’m going to stay here, cuddled in a ball of warmth, staring at the curtains, pressing my sore arm against sharp ribs, trying to hold back another bought of bullshit tears until he leaves.

“Or not.”

It’s a frustrated mumble. Tense. Low. Almost impossible to catch. Dad’s on the verge of giving up. Finally.

He pats my knee, rests his hand there, gives it this little shake-shove thing. “Come on. Eat.”

No.

“This isn’t a joke, Dannilynn. Did you listen to the doctor at all?”

You’ve reached Dannilynn’s voicemail. Danny can’t answer your obnoxious questions right now. If this is a pressing matter, please refer to one of the following prerecorded answers: 1) No; 2) Screw off; 3) Get out of my face. If you’d like to record your message, well, that’s too damn bad.

“I’m going to sit here until you eat.”

Funny. Bye.

“I have all night.”

And he starts making himself comfortable.

Kicks his shoes off. Brings his feet onto the bed. Leans against the headboard. Crosses his arms. Settles his body on my heating pad. Takes up space. In my space.

He’s fucking serious.

Time ticks and ticks and ticks. Seconds, minutes, I don’t know, and he sits there. Just sits there. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to ply me with pretty words and material items and false concern. He doesn’t turn to nonstop rambling to fill the awkwardness. He sits. Sits sits sits sits sitsitsits sitsitsitsits sitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsits.

You want to play your damn games, Dad? Fine. Let’s play.

I push myself up. Slowly. Carefully. My arms are shaky, my head goes light, but the blankets and comforter stay tucked around my waist and artfully flared over my bed. Over the red spots.

What Dad doesn’t know won’t make him go into an unnecessary rant and take away my expensive, new razors.

Dad doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He sits comfortably on my bed, on my heating pad, watching me. He’s supposed to leave. I sat up. That’s me giving my best effort. That’s me getting ready to pick at your food. Give me your stupid pep talk, tell me you forgot water or your beer or cookies or a blanket or something, go downstairs for fifteen minutes, and put on the surprised, excited act when you come back up and the plate is empty. Play by the rules of your game, Dad.

A ton of bricks press on my chest. Breathing feels weird, sharp, painful. I’m going to throw up the whole bunch of nothing in my stomach.

He really wasn’t joking.

I curl into myself, bring my knees tight against my body, nails trying to dig through blankets and comforters and sweats and getting nowhere. I want to rock. I want to get up and pace. I need to move.

He’s not leaving until I eat.

I can’t eat.

I get it, Dad, you put in effort in getting dinner ready for me. Some sandwich on wheat bread, lettuce and tomato and meat and what looks like mustard peeking out. No cheese. Never cheese. A little pile of grapes. You’ve probably measured them out just for me. Half a cup at most. Yogurt. Light and Fit in strawberry and banana flavor. Five rice crackers. Plain. For a nice, dry crunch for less calories than chips. A knife with the utensils. Nothing needs cutting, but you know. This isn’t mindless binge food. This is meal food, and it has to be in bite size pieces, and that makes no sense because I shove junk in mouth, to the point of painful stomach extension, without cutting anything up, but this has to be bite size. Contradictory. Stupid. Not that you’re aware, probably, or maybe you are, I don’t know. You’re not questioning it anyway.

And… it’s kind of nice. You did this for me. You’ve been doing this shit all day. Caring and meticulously putting dishes together and finding recipes for low-calorie cookies and trying to get me to be okay with eating.

But I can’t eat.

“Are you crying?”

Am I? Again?

He shifts, feet falling to floor, craning his neck to try to meet my eyes. “Hey,” his voice is soft, a whisper, cautious, and his arm wraps around my shoulders, “it’s okay.”

No, it’s not. Stop doing this.

I’m shaking and choking on sobs and tears streak my cheeks and it gets worse when Dad tucks me against him, cuddles me, rocks me. He’s shushing me, murmuring, both arms around me now, holding me, his chin rested on my head.

“It’s just food.”

It’s not just food, you asshole.

“Eating won’t hurt you.”

You don’t know anything. Why are you so fucking clueless? Why can’t you see? Why can’t you let me do this? Why, Dad? Why?

There’s a scratchy, wheezy sound. From in my throat and it hurts. I can’t breathe. I’m soaking Dad’s shirt. I’m a mess. I’m pathetic. I can’t function like a normal person. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I can’t do this anymore.

Over my loud sobbing, my uncontrollable tears, Dad speaks, but it doesn’t sound like Dad. A croaking voice, which can’t be Dad and I don’t recognize it from anywhere else, speaking stilted, muffled words:

“I want… to… die.”

And Dad stills and I don’t understand and my throat burns, ripped apart by—Oh.

That was me.