Status: FYI: two chapters posted March 20; COMPLETED
Do Not Resuscitate
Chapter 29
I don’t want to die.
Does not compute.
I don’t want to die.
Please rephrase the statement.
I don’t want to die.
Road closed. Detour.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t understand.
I don’t want to die.
What does that mean?
I don’t want to die.
I do.
I don’t want to die.
My head hurts.
I don’t want—
Weight makes my bed dip, makes me jerk, snaps me into a reality away from confusing words so incoherent they may as well be Dr. Seuss gibberish. Dad. With a sagging Hefty bag in his hands. I stare at it, the stupidly huge bag full of nothing.
Almost nothing.
Three apple cubes, a small square of toast, a paper-like strip of crust, the perfect grape plucked from the top of a haphazard pile, four pieces of celery that add up to one full stalk, a Tootsie Roll Pop and Starburst, a spoon I don’t remember taking, the stash of laxatives I oh-so-cleverly kept stocked in an empty box of Midol. A whole bunch of nothing he turned up in his thirty minute search through my room and dropped one by one into a trash bag.
“I was hoping there’d be more.”
So was I.
But I don’t know what that more is or was or where it existed in my brain, what compartments it shoved itself in to keep itself safe as a vague concept to be picked apart at a later date, and all I can do is stare lamely at your Hefty bag full of my stuff and try to sort through nonsense mumbo-jumbo.
And I feel nothing.
“Are you okay?”
I am numb.
“Danny?”
What’s wrong with me?
“Hey.” Dad puts a meaty hand on my arm, a feather light touch, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he presses too hard, and maybe he’s right, maybe I will shatter into a million sharp fragments under pressure. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.”
You can’t keep your promises.
He doesn’t say anything. For a long moment, he sits there, with his hand on my arm and my stash of contraband just out of reach, and says nothing. The muted sounds of blaring music from somewhere downstairs and Brooklyn’s off-key screeching fill what would be silence. Something about nobody’s perfect and how she has to work it again and again to get it right and you, the audience of screaming prepubescent children I think, live and learn it and more about messing up sometimes. Catchy and upbeat to make the sting of disappoint cut less. How clever.
She needs voice lessons. Brooklyn does, not the auto tuned popstar she’s got cranked up. Start her now, Dad, she’ll actually take to it. She’ll be the musician you always wanted. She’ll follow in your footsteps. Stop sitting around with me and place your time where it will be appreciated. Get her the pretty sequined outfits and the headset and a little stage for her to serenade you with, give her everything she wants and needs so she can grow up and…
Grow up.
So she can grow up.
My gut twists around itself. It’s tight and painful and there’s a knife stabbing right under my ribcage. It hurts to breathe around the imaginary metal. I think I might cry. Again.
I won’t see Brooklyn grow up.
Because I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
Damn it.
“Val bought smoothies.”
What is happening to me?
“I thought you might like, I don’t know, they’re good, from the corner store, and you know, smoothies.”
Stop talking about smoothies—God, seriously, smoothies? Am I on a juice cleanse? Look at me. Look. At. Me. I’m dying. I have an eating disorder and it’s killing me and you want me to drink some sugared up, calorie dense nonsense?—Help me, Dad.
Help me.
“There’s banana-mango and strawberry-apple. What do they call it? Strapple? Appleberry? Something called an immune booster too. It looked kind of gross. You don’t have to drink that one.”
That is the most inane thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Strapple? Fucking strapple? You write your own lyrics?
He’s still talking. Smoothies, smoothies, and more stupid smoothies, and he doesn’t see, he can’t see.
I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die Idon’t want todie I don’twant todieI don’t wanttodie Idon’twant todieIdon’t wantto die Idon’twanttodie Idon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodie Idn’twantodieIdn’t wntodeIdonwanttodie Idon’twattdiI dotwnt tdie I dnt wnttd IdntwanttdieIdn’twnttoddon’twntdiedntwnttdie.
I’m going insane.
“Are you listening?”
Are you?
“I need to check your pillows.”
…
No.
“Danny, come on.”
I can’t breathe.
“I’m not letting you keep the razors.”
Go fuck yourself, Dad, they’re mine, you can’t have them.
He waits. I don’t move. Tense silence stretches between us. But it’s not silent. Not really. Brooklyn is still yelling to blaring music downstairs—a new song that is distinctly some Disney channel children’s band, fruit salad, yummy, yummy, her taste in music is incredibly refined and hardcore—and Bella is barking, Shadow is quiet per always because he’s probably chewing on something he shouldn’t be, a blanket or Brooklyn’s Barbies or running shoes, he loves those, and Dad is wrapping the Hefty bag in his hands, around his knuckles, unravel, around his knuckles, unravel, and my brain is pulsing, throbbing, and I don’t want to die.
Shut. Up.
Dad heaves a sigh, the “Dannilynn, for the love of all that is holy, cut the shit” sigh, drops the Hefty bag to the floor, stands.
And he grabs a pillow.
What are you doing?
He shoves his hand in the pillowcase.
Stop it.
He digs around. Front, back, sides. Squashes the, already flat, down-stuffed cushion against his chest. Once. Twice. Turns it over and shakes it. Nothing. It’s the wrong pillow, I know it’s the wrong pillow, but my heart is in my throat and my skin is crawling and I think I might scream.
Stop it right now.
He tosses the inspected pillow to the foot of my bed.
Leave my shit alone.
He grabs another pillow.
Damnit, Dad. Who do you think you are? M. Shadows, Lord of the Pillows?
He digs, squashes, shakes. It’s his very own, soon-to-be-patented process for searching an anorexic’s room. He’s convinced his campaign to drive me crazy by infiltrating my space will be fruitful, he’ll find the overpriced pack of razors I bought with the emergency credit card, he’ll go down in history as Best Dad of an Anorexic in the History of Ever, he can save me.
I don’t want to die.
Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
He grabs the next pillow.
I don’t want to die.
He digs, squashes, shakes.
You’re stupid. I can’t… It… you’re just… so…
“Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.”
Fuck.
He stops. His stare sears the side of my face. There’s ringing in my skull, fire in my throat, my heart is hammering against my ribcage, hard, too hard, I can’t pull my nails out of my stomach, I’m choking on air. I need out.
I don’t want to die.
Fuck you.
“Danny,” Dad’s voice is low, worn-out, and edged with parental warning, “Language.”
I shatter.
“Fuck.” Yelling. I’m yelling and struggling to sit up, and I have no control. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” I try to take a deep breath—my lungs won’t fill—and meet Dad’s red-rimmed eyes. “Fuck,” I huff.
My heart. Holy shit. I think I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
Hah.
Dad’s eyes go wide. He’s still. He doesn’t know what to do with me, his angry, mentally unstable child who seems to be antagonizing him every chance she gets. I don’t care.
He lets out a breath, but it doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders. “Sweetie,” he says, cautiously, “I need you to calm down.”
Cute.
“Or what? You’ll ground me?”
“Your heart.”
“My heart?” I laugh. “Fuck my heart.”
I don’t want to die.
Fuck.
Help me.
“Shut up,” I snap.
At myself. Out loud. Batshit crazy.
“Don’t say that.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Dad.”
“That’s the eating disorder—”
“Talking? That’s the eating disorder talking?” I want to cry. I’m going to cry. My face is getting hot, the weird tingling spreads through my nose, wetness stings my eyes. “Are you blind?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I… I…”
I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
“Sissy?”
Brooklyn.
I look to the wide open bedroom door, and there she is. Propped up on Val’s hip. Tiny fist in her mouth. The knuckles. An awful habit. Her sign of distress, confusion, general unhappiness she doesn’t quite understand. And she’s staring at me with her big eyes.
No.
Val’s voice breaks the stunned silence, “Brooklyn wanted to see what the yelling was about.”
I don’t even glance at Val, don’t glance at Dad, don’t try to read the silent interaction I know their having with head nudges and subtle eye movements. I watch Brooklyn watching me.
I’m scarring her for life.
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t have a choice.
She pulls her fist out of her mouth, but her eyes are still round saucers of insecurity. Brooklyn… no… Take her away, Val. She doesn’t need to see this.
“I boughted you a chocolate,” Brooklyn says.
Chocolate?
“Princess,” Dad says. The Pied Piper is in full effect. “I don’t think—”
“It’s for Sissy,” Brooklyn screeches.
“Right, of course, I…” He sighs. He gives up. He runs out of fight. I broke him. “It’s for Sissy.”
I can’t help myself. I look at him. It’s a mistake the second I do it. His whole body is deflated. He’s so battle worn, with all the deeply etched lines and dark circles and red lines and slight pallor and defeat, that I’m not sure how he’s standing. His family is unraveling, and he can’t seem to get a handle on it.
My fault, my fault, it’s always my fault.
I don’t want to die.
I’m so sorry.
I pull my eyes away, turn my head because I just can’t anymore, and holy shit, chocolate. Right there. In my face. It’s glorious, wrapped in shiny purple, thick not the cheap chocolate bar, the good chocolate, the creamydeliciousmouthwatering kind, in Brooklyn’s hot little hands. Saliva fills up my mouth, and a wave of nausea makes my head swim, and I want to swallow the damn thing whole. I’m hungry.
I take it.
Hold it. Stare at it. Rub the pad of my index finger over the uneven edge. Read the words. Cadbury, Dairy Milk, Milk Chocolate, Velvety Smooth, Net Wt 3.5 oz (99 g). Flip it over in my hands. Stroke the shiny wrapper. Trace the flap. Lift. Read. Serving Size 7 blocks (39 g), Servings per container about 2.5, Amount per Serving: Calories 200.
200 calories.
Per serving.
Can’t breathe.
“You be ‘kay?” Brooklyn asks.
I can’t eat this.
“Sissy will be fine, Princess,” Dad answers.
No, I won’t, you don’t know anything.
“You posivitive?” Brooklyn asks.
The damn chocolate.
I don’t want to die.
Val cuts in. “We promise, monkey.”
Stop. Making. Promises.
“Daddy will bring Sissy to the doctor tomorrow,” Val continues, “and she’ll be all better.”
No.
“Easy peasy?”
I need air.
Hesitation, a split second of uncertainty, then Dad’s smooth Pied Piper baritone: “She might have to leave for a while.”
Doctor. The checkup. One week to gain two pounds. I’d like to get you on the wait list for an inpatient program.
“How many?”
“However many it takes.”
Nononononono.
I can’t, I’m not, you can’t make me go. They’ll put a tube in me. They’ll pump me full of lard. They’ll drug me with pretty meds. They’ll keep me alive. So what, you can feel better about yourself? You don’t want me. You never wanted me. Stop playing this game.
I don’t want to die.
Yes, I do.
Do something. Fix it. I have to. I can’t go. I can’t let them lock me up. This won’t happen. I’m not consenting to "treatment" so my absentee father can … can…
“—your razors.”
“Shit, really, Dad,” I yell, “Fine. You want them?”
I wrench the pillow from under my tailbone, yank the pillowcase off, shove my hand in the hole I ripped at the bottom seam, search through stuffing, dig, dig, keep digging until I hit the edge of the package, and pull them out.
“Take them,” I spit out and throw them onto the bed.
Out in the open. Relinquished. He can have them. I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
I don’t want to die.
You can’t stop me.
Does not compute.
I don’t want to die.
Please rephrase the statement.
I don’t want to die.
Road closed. Detour.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t understand.
I don’t want to die.
What does that mean?
I don’t want to die.
I do.
I don’t want to die.
My head hurts.
I don’t want—
Weight makes my bed dip, makes me jerk, snaps me into a reality away from confusing words so incoherent they may as well be Dr. Seuss gibberish. Dad. With a sagging Hefty bag in his hands. I stare at it, the stupidly huge bag full of nothing.
Almost nothing.
Three apple cubes, a small square of toast, a paper-like strip of crust, the perfect grape plucked from the top of a haphazard pile, four pieces of celery that add up to one full stalk, a Tootsie Roll Pop and Starburst, a spoon I don’t remember taking, the stash of laxatives I oh-so-cleverly kept stocked in an empty box of Midol. A whole bunch of nothing he turned up in his thirty minute search through my room and dropped one by one into a trash bag.
“I was hoping there’d be more.”
So was I.
But I don’t know what that more is or was or where it existed in my brain, what compartments it shoved itself in to keep itself safe as a vague concept to be picked apart at a later date, and all I can do is stare lamely at your Hefty bag full of my stuff and try to sort through nonsense mumbo-jumbo.
And I feel nothing.
“Are you okay?”
I am numb.
“Danny?”
What’s wrong with me?
“Hey.” Dad puts a meaty hand on my arm, a feather light touch, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he presses too hard, and maybe he’s right, maybe I will shatter into a million sharp fragments under pressure. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.”
You can’t keep your promises.
He doesn’t say anything. For a long moment, he sits there, with his hand on my arm and my stash of contraband just out of reach, and says nothing. The muted sounds of blaring music from somewhere downstairs and Brooklyn’s off-key screeching fill what would be silence. Something about nobody’s perfect and how she has to work it again and again to get it right and you, the audience of screaming prepubescent children I think, live and learn it and more about messing up sometimes. Catchy and upbeat to make the sting of disappoint cut less. How clever.
She needs voice lessons. Brooklyn does, not the auto tuned popstar she’s got cranked up. Start her now, Dad, she’ll actually take to it. She’ll be the musician you always wanted. She’ll follow in your footsteps. Stop sitting around with me and place your time where it will be appreciated. Get her the pretty sequined outfits and the headset and a little stage for her to serenade you with, give her everything she wants and needs so she can grow up and…
Grow up.
So she can grow up.
My gut twists around itself. It’s tight and painful and there’s a knife stabbing right under my ribcage. It hurts to breathe around the imaginary metal. I think I might cry. Again.
I won’t see Brooklyn grow up.
Because I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
Damn it.
“Val bought smoothies.”
What is happening to me?
“I thought you might like, I don’t know, they’re good, from the corner store, and you know, smoothies.”
Stop talking about smoothies—God, seriously, smoothies? Am I on a juice cleanse? Look at me. Look. At. Me. I’m dying. I have an eating disorder and it’s killing me and you want me to drink some sugared up, calorie dense nonsense?—Help me, Dad.
Help me.
“There’s banana-mango and strawberry-apple. What do they call it? Strapple? Appleberry? Something called an immune booster too. It looked kind of gross. You don’t have to drink that one.”
That is the most inane thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Strapple? Fucking strapple? You write your own lyrics?
He’s still talking. Smoothies, smoothies, and more stupid smoothies, and he doesn’t see, he can’t see.
I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die Idon’t want todie I don’twant todieI don’t wanttodie Idon’twant todieIdon’t wantto die Idon’twanttodie Idon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodie Idn’twantodieIdn’t wntodeIdonwanttodie Idon’twattdiI dotwnt tdie I dnt wnttd IdntwanttdieIdn’twnttoddon’twntdiedntwnttdie.
I’m going insane.
“Are you listening?”
Are you?
“I need to check your pillows.”
…
No.
“Danny, come on.”
I can’t breathe.
“I’m not letting you keep the razors.”
Go fuck yourself, Dad, they’re mine, you can’t have them.
He waits. I don’t move. Tense silence stretches between us. But it’s not silent. Not really. Brooklyn is still yelling to blaring music downstairs—a new song that is distinctly some Disney channel children’s band, fruit salad, yummy, yummy, her taste in music is incredibly refined and hardcore—and Bella is barking, Shadow is quiet per always because he’s probably chewing on something he shouldn’t be, a blanket or Brooklyn’s Barbies or running shoes, he loves those, and Dad is wrapping the Hefty bag in his hands, around his knuckles, unravel, around his knuckles, unravel, and my brain is pulsing, throbbing, and I don’t want to die.
Shut. Up.
Dad heaves a sigh, the “Dannilynn, for the love of all that is holy, cut the shit” sigh, drops the Hefty bag to the floor, stands.
And he grabs a pillow.
What are you doing?
He shoves his hand in the pillowcase.
Stop it.
He digs around. Front, back, sides. Squashes the, already flat, down-stuffed cushion against his chest. Once. Twice. Turns it over and shakes it. Nothing. It’s the wrong pillow, I know it’s the wrong pillow, but my heart is in my throat and my skin is crawling and I think I might scream.
Stop it right now.
He tosses the inspected pillow to the foot of my bed.
Leave my shit alone.
He grabs another pillow.
Damnit, Dad. Who do you think you are? M. Shadows, Lord of the Pillows?
He digs, squashes, shakes. It’s his very own, soon-to-be-patented process for searching an anorexic’s room. He’s convinced his campaign to drive me crazy by infiltrating my space will be fruitful, he’ll find the overpriced pack of razors I bought with the emergency credit card, he’ll go down in history as Best Dad of an Anorexic in the History of Ever, he can save me.
I don’t want to die.
Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
He grabs the next pillow.
I don’t want to die.
He digs, squashes, shakes.
You’re stupid. I can’t… It… you’re just… so…
“Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.”
Fuck.
He stops. His stare sears the side of my face. There’s ringing in my skull, fire in my throat, my heart is hammering against my ribcage, hard, too hard, I can’t pull my nails out of my stomach, I’m choking on air. I need out.
I don’t want to die.
Fuck you.
“Danny,” Dad’s voice is low, worn-out, and edged with parental warning, “Language.”
I shatter.
“Fuck.” Yelling. I’m yelling and struggling to sit up, and I have no control. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” I try to take a deep breath—my lungs won’t fill—and meet Dad’s red-rimmed eyes. “Fuck,” I huff.
My heart. Holy shit. I think I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
Hah.
Dad’s eyes go wide. He’s still. He doesn’t know what to do with me, his angry, mentally unstable child who seems to be antagonizing him every chance she gets. I don’t care.
He lets out a breath, but it doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders. “Sweetie,” he says, cautiously, “I need you to calm down.”
Cute.
“Or what? You’ll ground me?”
“Your heart.”
“My heart?” I laugh. “Fuck my heart.”
I don’t want to die.
Fuck.
Help me.
“Shut up,” I snap.
At myself. Out loud. Batshit crazy.
“Don’t say that.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Dad.”
“That’s the eating disorder—”
“Talking? That’s the eating disorder talking?” I want to cry. I’m going to cry. My face is getting hot, the weird tingling spreads through my nose, wetness stings my eyes. “Are you blind?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I… I…”
I’m dying.
I don’t want to die.
“Sissy?”
Brooklyn.
I look to the wide open bedroom door, and there she is. Propped up on Val’s hip. Tiny fist in her mouth. The knuckles. An awful habit. Her sign of distress, confusion, general unhappiness she doesn’t quite understand. And she’s staring at me with her big eyes.
No.
Val’s voice breaks the stunned silence, “Brooklyn wanted to see what the yelling was about.”
I don’t even glance at Val, don’t glance at Dad, don’t try to read the silent interaction I know their having with head nudges and subtle eye movements. I watch Brooklyn watching me.
I’m scarring her for life.
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t have a choice.
She pulls her fist out of her mouth, but her eyes are still round saucers of insecurity. Brooklyn… no… Take her away, Val. She doesn’t need to see this.
“I boughted you a chocolate,” Brooklyn says.
Chocolate?
“Princess,” Dad says. The Pied Piper is in full effect. “I don’t think—”
“It’s for Sissy,” Brooklyn screeches.
“Right, of course, I…” He sighs. He gives up. He runs out of fight. I broke him. “It’s for Sissy.”
I can’t help myself. I look at him. It’s a mistake the second I do it. His whole body is deflated. He’s so battle worn, with all the deeply etched lines and dark circles and red lines and slight pallor and defeat, that I’m not sure how he’s standing. His family is unraveling, and he can’t seem to get a handle on it.
My fault, my fault, it’s always my fault.
I don’t want to die.
I’m so sorry.
I pull my eyes away, turn my head because I just can’t anymore, and holy shit, chocolate. Right there. In my face. It’s glorious, wrapped in shiny purple, thick not the cheap chocolate bar, the good chocolate, the creamydeliciousmouthwatering kind, in Brooklyn’s hot little hands. Saliva fills up my mouth, and a wave of nausea makes my head swim, and I want to swallow the damn thing whole. I’m hungry.
I take it.
Hold it. Stare at it. Rub the pad of my index finger over the uneven edge. Read the words. Cadbury, Dairy Milk, Milk Chocolate, Velvety Smooth, Net Wt 3.5 oz (99 g). Flip it over in my hands. Stroke the shiny wrapper. Trace the flap. Lift. Read. Serving Size 7 blocks (39 g), Servings per container about 2.5, Amount per Serving: Calories 200.
200 calories.
Per serving.
Can’t breathe.
“You be ‘kay?” Brooklyn asks.
I can’t eat this.
“Sissy will be fine, Princess,” Dad answers.
No, I won’t, you don’t know anything.
“You posivitive?” Brooklyn asks.
The damn chocolate.
I don’t want to die.
Val cuts in. “We promise, monkey.”
Stop. Making. Promises.
“Daddy will bring Sissy to the doctor tomorrow,” Val continues, “and she’ll be all better.”
No.
“Easy peasy?”
I need air.
Hesitation, a split second of uncertainty, then Dad’s smooth Pied Piper baritone: “She might have to leave for a while.”
Doctor. The checkup. One week to gain two pounds. I’d like to get you on the wait list for an inpatient program.
“How many?”
“However many it takes.”
Nononononono.
I can’t, I’m not, you can’t make me go. They’ll put a tube in me. They’ll pump me full of lard. They’ll drug me with pretty meds. They’ll keep me alive. So what, you can feel better about yourself? You don’t want me. You never wanted me. Stop playing this game.
I don’t want to die.
Yes, I do.
Do something. Fix it. I have to. I can’t go. I can’t let them lock me up. This won’t happen. I’m not consenting to "treatment" so my absentee father can … can…
“—your razors.”
“Shit, really, Dad,” I yell, “Fine. You want them?”
I wrench the pillow from under my tailbone, yank the pillowcase off, shove my hand in the hole I ripped at the bottom seam, search through stuffing, dig, dig, keep digging until I hit the edge of the package, and pull them out.
“Take them,” I spit out and throw them onto the bed.
Out in the open. Relinquished. He can have them. I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
I don’t want to die.
You can’t stop me.