The Naked Truth

 
The Future Hana, Maui 5:51 a.m. Mart Belden woke to the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window. Rolling to his side, he smiled at the beautiful woman lying beside him. She stirred, her lashes lifting to reveal a set of stunning violet eyes. “Good morning, husband,” she said softly, the corners of her mouth turning up in a sleepy smile. “Good morning, wife,” Mart responded, his heart swelling with love for his spouse. “I like the way that sounds,” Diana Lynch Belden said. “Wife. Mrs. Belden. Mrs. Martin Belden.” “Well, now it’s officially official.” Mart said. “We are an old married couple.” Diana giggled. “Not too old,” she warned, snuggling closer to him. “I have plans.” “Mmmmm.” He wrapped his arms around her and let his lips wander across her mouth and down her neck to nuzzle a particularly sensitive spot near her collarbone. “I like your plans.” Two hours later, he wasn’t quite so sure. "I can't do this." He held up the microscopic Speedo and shook his head. "Yes, you can. Trust me." She smiled at him, her faith in her eyes. “You’ll look awesome.” "I can't." He shook his head and clutched his shirt in his hands. "I'm not... I..." “You’re not what? Tell me.” Mart felt heat creeping up his neck. Diana had always held his heart. When she looked at him with such confidence and faith, he had little choice but believe her. He swallowed hard, searching for words to explain. “I love you, Di. I always have. It’s just…I know it’s been a long time, but I’m still…” He closed his eyes. Taking a ragged breath, he finished. “I’m recovering, but it never really goes away. I’m a bulimic, and body image is still an issue sometimes.”  The Past… October 1985 “Belden!” Coach Hayes bellowed. Obediently, Mart stepped up onto the scale. 143. He breathed out a silent sigh of relief. He was down almost three pounds from last weigh-in, dropping him to the 145 lb weight class instead of the 150 lb class. “Better,” the wrestling coach grunted, marking his chart. “But I’d like it if you could get down another three pounds. Or, better yet, down to 135. We could use some help in those classes.” “Yes, coach,” Mart said, his heart sinking into his nearly empty stomach. He’d been eating mostly carrots and celery for the past four days. “I’ll try.” “You do that,” the coach told him. “Talk to Riley. He knows lots of tricks to make weight. He can help you lose your pudge layer.” Coach Hayes jabbed his index finger into Mart’s ribs. “District champ last season, you know.” “Yes, sir.” Mart stepped off the scale and grabbed his gym bag. He was supposed to meet Dan and the girls at Wimpy’s for dinner in ten minutes. His stomach rumbled loudly at the idea of cheeseburgers and malts, but he tried to ignore it as he pulled on his street clothes. It looked like another week of vegetable sticks and water was on the horizon. There was no sense in longing for what he couldn’t have. The smell of frying hamburgers smacked him in the face like an open-handed slap. Wimpy’s. Warm, fragrant, drool worthy aromas assailing him. His stomach growled hopefully at him, but he turned his attention to finding his friends. It wasn’t difficult. Dan was holding court with the girls at their usual booth in the back corner of the restaurant. Mart could see them, joking and teasing just like always. A smile that was ninety percent genuine appeared on his face as he approached them. “Hey!” he said. “Sorry I’m late. Practice went long.” “Whose birthday was it today?” Trixie asked, rolling eyes that mirrored his own. “Last time you were this late you gorged yourself on Alan Murphy’s birthday cake.” Mart felt his grin slip a little. Truth be known, he hadn’t done more than taste the coconut frosting on Murph’s cake. It had just been a convenient excuse for his alleged lack of appetite. Shrugging, he countered, “Is it my fault certain people have moms who like to bake? Did you order?” “Nope.” Dan slid closer to Tessa, letting Mart slide in beside him. He waited while his friend leaned across the white laminate table to kiss his girlfriend. As Mart leaned back against the red vinyl, Dan continued. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He signaled the waitress. “The usual?” Mart hesitated. “Not for me,” he said. “I’m not that hungry.” The waitress took the other orders of double cheeseburgers, fries and chocolate milkshakes, but Mart regretfully ordered a regular cheeseburger and a soda. “I’m going to go wash my hands,” he said, excusing himself. Casting a quick glance at his friends to make sure they were otherwise occupied, he tapped the waitress on the shoulder. “I really not that hungry,” he apologized. “Can I change my order to a regular burger with no sauce and a diet soda, please?” “Sure thing, Sweetie,” Cheryl the waitress said with a vague smile. She marked the order form with her pen. “You caught me just in time.” “Thanks.” Mart gave her a weak grin and continued his journey to the restroom.  “Here,” Diana said, sliding her basket of French fries across the table toward Mart. “I’m full.” His hand hovered over them, the smell of the frying oil and salt teasing his nostrils, luring him. His fingers dipped, pinching up two shoestrings of potato and lifting them toward his eager mouth. His saliva gland went into overdrive and as the drool pooled under his tongue. It was all he could do not to shove the morsels into his mouth and grab a handful. As his lips closed around the fries, he savored the taste, not even using his teeth, but using his tongue instead to suck out every ounce of flavor until the crispy potatoes had nearly dissolved and slid effortlessly down his throat. They tasted good, so good…and eating them was far too easy. With an internal wince and an external rueful grin, he pushed the basket back across the table to Di and said, “Me, too. Sorry.” “Well,” Dan said, reaching for the basket, “you might have filled up your hollow leg, but mine still has a little room.” “He probably snacked on somebody’s mom’s baked goods all through wrestling practice,” Trixie teased with a snort. “He isn’t the human garbage disposal for nothing, you know.” His sister’s good-natured teasing shouldn’t have stung as much as it did, but considering he’d spent the past four weeks eating the tiniest portions he could slip past his mother, and filling the void in his stomach with water and strips of veggies better suited for a bunny than a seventeen-year-old boy, Trixie’s words hurt. Since he couldn’t come up with an appropriate response, he ignored her completely and took a deep drink from his soda cup. Bad idea. The artificial sweetener made him want to gag, but he managed to keep his reaction to a brief grimace. Three months, he thought to himself. Just three more months and I can enjoy food again.  November 25, 1985 Mart finished the last quarter mile and dropped from a run into a slow jog. Five miles today. Enough to work off the waffle he’d had for breakfast, and maybe even the apple that had made up the majority of his lunch. He’d been holding at 136 pounds for the last three weeks. He needed to lose those last two pounds in order to wrestle in the 135 class. Weigh-in for tomorrow’s meet was in less than an hour. Coach Hayes hadn’t been happy with him the last two weigh-ins. He supposed he could blame the gain on Diana’s annual Halloween party. Too much delicious food to resist, and he hadn’t. Having Brian and Jim home for the party hadn’t helped, either. Moms had cooked up a storm the whole weekend, as had the Wheelers’ Cook. Mart had enjoyed himself, managing to push the guilt aside—until weigh in. 145 had made the coach frown, the lines in his forehead furrowing deep as he growled, “Lose the lard, Belden. I need to fill those 130/135 slots.” At the half-mile mark, Mart slowed to a cool-down walk. As he headed to the locker room, he said a silent prayer. Please let me make weight. Please.  Showered, dried and dressed in his wrestling singlet, Mart fidgeted anxiously. When his name was called, he stepped up onto the scale and held his breath. “132,” Coach Hayes called. “Not bad, Belden. You’re good for 135 tomorrow. See if you can drop a couple more over the Thanksgiving break. I’d like to have you wrestle at 130 for the tournament.” Mart tried to keep the astonishment off of his face. Two more pounds? Was the man kidding? Swallowing hard, he simply nodded and said, “I’ll work on it, Coach.” His elation at ‘making weight’ had been ephemeral to say the least. He changed quickly and dropped to the bench to put on his street shoes. “Why so glum, chum?” Mart looked up at Conner Riley. Defeated, he moaned, “Coach wants me to drop more weight so I can wrestle 130 at the tourney.” “What did you tip today?” Riley asked. “132,” Mart replied. “And I worked my tail off to get to it.” “I hear ya,” Riley sympathized. “What all are you doing?” “I’m eating rabbit food and running,” Mart told him. “I upped my lifting first period, too. I’m trying my hardest, but I don’t know what else to do.” Riley plopped himself down on the bench. “I’ll let you in on my secret,” he said. “Well, one of my secrets.” Reaching into the pocket of his blue jeans and pulled out a small square wrapped in wax paper. “Here.” Mart reached for it. “What’s this?” he asked. “Laxative cube,” Riley whispered. “That one’s peppermint, but they come in chocolate flavor, too. I take one the day before the meet.” “What does it do?” Riley laughed. “You know what it does, Belden. Just remember to take it as soon as you get home. Otherwise, I guarantee you won’t get any sleep.” Mart rolled the cube in the palm of his hand. “I don’t know…” “It’s fine,” Riley insisted. “I buy them at the grocery store, and they work. Give it a try.” “Okay,” Mart said slowly. “Thanks.” “Any time,” Riley said, rising and grabbing his bag. “See you tomorrow.” He left the locker room, leaving Mart pondering the contents of his hand.  November 26, 1985 Mart’s head was swimming. He’d done well in his match, dropping his opponent with a technical fall and scoring well for his team, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything but his rapidly beating heart and churning, albeit, empty, belly. Taking a sip from his water bottle, he pondered the choices he had made in the last 24 hours. Taking the laxative had been effective. He’d weighed in today at 131, but he felt awful. Of course, he’d barely eaten anything all day. Toast with a thin layer of crabapple jelly for breakfast, and a cup of chicken broth with a side of shredded iceberg lettuce from the cafeteria at the college for lunch. The last whistle blew and Mart stood up to join his teammates. His breath caught in his chest and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of falling, and everything went black. His next conscious thought was of suffocation and paralysis. He was unable to move, and the air was stifling and rank with stale sweat and…fear? Forcing open his eyes, he tried to focus on the myriad of faces surrounding him. His teammates. Dan, his face drawn and white, holding tightly to a red-eyed Honey Wheeler and Trixie, while Tessa had her arms wrapped around a teary, frightened Diana. The trainer, Mr. Janik, was kneeling beside him, one hand against his neck, checking for his heartbeat, Mart supposed. “I’m okay,” he rasped weakly. “Really. I just stood up too fast.” “I think you should go to the hospital and get checked out,” Mr. Janik said. “No!” Mart struggled to sit up, relieved when the throng of spectators began to disperse, allowing him some much needed air. “Really, Mr. Janik. I stood up too fast, all the blood rushed to my head and I passed out. I’m fine.” “What did you eat today?” Janik asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Uh…” Mart tried to think. “Toast. Jam. Soup. Salad.” “Did you hydrate?” “Uh…” Mart had to think. “I had a soda at lunch, and some water.” Janik shook his head. “What’s your doctor’s name?” “Dr. Ferris.” Trixie answered the question for him. Breaking away from Dan, she knelt down next to the trainer and asked, “Mr. Janik, if we promise to take my idiot brother to the doctor right now, will you let him skip the hospital?” “Are you sure Dr. Ferris will be able to see him?” Mr. Janik asked. “Pretty sure.” Trixie smiled at the trainer, with wide blue eyes, dimples flashing. “Why, Dr. Ferris still makes house calls.” Janik pondered the question. Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But you and I are going to call both the doctor and your parents. Then you can take Fainting Fanny here.” “I’ll help him change, sir,” Dan volunteered, stepping forward. He handed a set of keys to his girlfriend. “Why don’t you drive Di and Honey, Tess? I’ll bring Trix and Mart.” Mart watched his cousin take the keys and lead the other girls away. He managed a weak smile, trying to reassure the still weepy and worried Diana, but it faded as soon as she was out of sight. Dan offered his hand and Mart took it gratefully, allowing his friend to help him to his feet. Once Trixie and Mr. Janik had left, Dan turned on him. “What the hell happened?” Mart suddenly felt very tired. “I got dizzy,” he said tersely. “That’s it.” He started walking toward the locker room. “Mart!” Dan caught him by the elbow. “Dude, please. Look, I know I’ve been preoccupied with my own crap lately, but…” “I’m okay.” Mart took a deep breath and was honest. Mostly. “I’ve trying to cut weight to make the lower class. I just overdid it a little.” Dan seemed to relax a little. He shook his head, a teasing light in his dark eyes. “I don’t get wrestling,” he said. “Dieting. Leotards. Rolling on a mat with guys. Definitely not my thing.” Mart managed a grin—even though he could see Dan’s point. “First, it’s a singlet—not a leotard. Second, it’s about skill and finesse. You troglodyte.” “Reclusive, brutal, ancient tribe member?” Dan pretended to ponder the phrase. He shrugged and gave Mart a grin. “I’ve been called worse.” Mart laughed, feeling the slightest bit better. “C’mon,” he said. “I need a shower.” “Ain’t that the truth?” Dan commented, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Lead on, stinky.”  Dr. Ferris frowned at Mart. “What was your weigh-in?” “132,” Mart replied. He was sitting, shirtless on his bed, avoiding looking at either his doctor or his father—who stood by the door, observing. “Mart,” Dr, Ferris said, placing his hand gently on his shoulder, “at your physical in September, you weighed 150. You’ve lost eighteen pounds in two months. That is not at all normal.” He crouched down, forcing Mart to meet his eyes. “Are you crash dieting, son?” “No!” Mart exclaimed. He hesitated. “Well, maybe a little. But I’ve been taking weight training, too, at school.” He shrugged. “My coach really wanted me to cut weight so I could compete in the 135 class. I might have fasted a little too hard, but I won’t do it again. I promise. Face planting at a meet is not my idea of fun.” “I’m glad to hear that.” Dr. Ferris stood up. “I want you to come in next week for a blood draw. I want to make sure your levels are correct. In the mean time, I want you to eat healthy and drink a lot of water. Dehydration is no joking matter.” His voice was serious but kind. “The proper weight for your height and frame is between 150 and 165 pounds. Right now, you’re running almost twenty pounds under. You’ve got decent muscle tone, but you need to fuel up if you’re going to keep yourself healthy. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” Mart tried a weak smile. “I get it. I’ll eat more.” “Good.” Dr. Ferris closed his bag with a snap. “With the way your mother cooks, that shouldn’t be a trial. I’ll see you next week. Right?” “Yes, sir,” Mart replied absently. “I have a tournament on Wednesday, so maybe Monday?” “Monday will be fine.” Dr. Ferris left the room, followed by a still silent Peter Belden. Mart collapsed back on his bed, trying to work his way through what had happened. He was a little frightened. Passing out scared him—made him feel as if he had lost control. It wasn’t a good feeling. He was definitely going to have to be more careful about controlling his food intake. He could imagine the conversation Dr. Ferris was having with his parents. They’d be watching every bite he put—or didn’t put—in his mouth. Curling up on his side, he considered his options. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized that he had completely missed dinner.  Thanksgiving, 1985 He played sick on Wednesday—although there wasn’t that much playing involved. He really didn’t feel all that well, and it was only a half day at the high school, with no scheduled college classes. Moms brought him breakfast in bed. Scrambled eggs and oatmeal. Mart managed the eggs, but, to his mother’s dismay, he could only fit about a third of the oatmeal in his stomach. Even then, he felt overly full and bloated. He did manage two cups of peppermint tea, and then fell asleep until Bobby arrived home shortly after noon. Downstairs, he joined the hustle and bustle of preparation for the annual Belden Thanksgiving Open House. Helen handed him a Crabapple Special and watched while he ate it. Mart took small bites, making the sandwich last far past his mother’s patience. Once he had eaten half, she was distracted by a chip in the big serving platter and turned her attention to that. Relieved, Mart took a few more bites before secreting the remains in his napkin and disposing the evidence in the trashcan. Dinner had been easier. Brian arrived from the city, and most of the attention was concentrated on him. Mart crawled into bed feeling fairly in control. Thanksgiving was a whole other story. The food just kept coming. Turkey. Ham. Casseroles. Bread—fragrant, delicious, tempting bread. It was all around him, and with his friends and family pressuring him, Mart felt obligated to taste everything. He was simultaneously in heaven and hell. By the time six o’clock rolled around, he had lost himself in laughing and visiting with his friends and guests, sitting at the kitchen table nibbling on mixed nuts. “I’m glad to see you’ve got your appetite back,” Moms said as she reached over Mart’s shoulder to pick the pie server off of the table. “Save room for dessert. I’m going to start slicing the pies, shortly.” Mart bit back a groan. His entire life he had loved food--all kinds and plenty of it. But today, after so many weeks of limiting his eating, his stomach was stretching past full and into painful. An idea occurred to him, and he excused himself from the table and slipped up the stairs. Assuring himself that he was alone, he slipped into his parents’ bathroom and opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. His blue eyes scanned the shelves until he found something that would work. Laxative powder. He snatched it from the shelf and carried it out and down the hall to the bathroom he shared with his siblings. “One tablespoon to 4 or 8 ounces of water,” he read. Reaching for his mouthwash cup, he poured in powder until the cup was about a quarter of the way full. Adding water, he used the handle of his toothbrush to stir his potion. Staring at the cloudy liquid, he rationalized with himself. “If the chewable stuff Riley gave me worked in two hours, this should work faster. It’s already digested, right?” Setting his toothbrush back in the holder, he toasted himself in the mirror and downed the whole glass in a single gulp. It was thick—like half-set gelatin—somewhat grainy, and completely vile. The mixture hit the back of his throat and he gagged. Hard. He tried to stop, but his brain barely had time to react before his body began to heave and he barely made it to his knees as he violently deposited the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Breathing hard, Mart flushed the commode and leaned back against the wall, wiping the corner of his mouth with a trembling hand. “That didn’t go as planned,” he muttered to himself. He pulled himself to his feet and gripped the edge of the sink. He didn’t look too bad, all things considered. Thoroughly rinsing his cup, he poured in some mouthwash and used it to rinse out his mouth. He brushed his teeth quickly and rinsed again. Carefully, he took inventory of himself. Except for slight soreness in his belly, and a low burn in the back of his throat, he felt okay…lighter, even. “Huh,” he told his reflection. “Maybe that’s the accidental solution. Gross, but effective.” The blue eyes gazing back from the mirror looked dubious, but he ignored the doubt that was rising, pushing it down with more success than he had had with his lost meal. “I need to do something,” he tried to reassure the Mart in the mirror. “I can’t keep starving myself. I can’t.” He didn’t really expect a response, so he wasn’t disappointed. “This way, I can control it,” he whispered. “I need to control it.” Turning away from his mirrored image, he replaced his cup, tucked in his shirt and returned to the party. “You’re just in time for dessert,” Diana told him with a smile and a quick kiss. “Where’d you go?” “I…” Mart grappled for an excuse. “ The…uh…red onions in Mrs. Pritchet’s three bean salad left a funky taste in my mouth. I went upstairs to brush my teeth.” Diana stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, this time a little longer. “Mmmmm,” she said. “Minty fresh and ready for pie?” “The more the merrier,” Mart said, meaning the words for the first time in weeks. “Lead me not into temptation, fair maiden, just hand me the dessert!” He smiled as she slid a slice of pumpkin pie onto his plate, and his smile grew bigger as the empty space on his plate grew smaller. “Hey!” Dan teased, poking him in the ribs. “Leave some for the rest of us.” His deft fingers snatched a rum ball off of Mart’s heaping helping. “There’s plenty,” Mart retorted, affecting a haughty air. “Besides, he who hesitates is lost.” So saying, he slathered whipped cream onto his pie and handed Dan the empty spoon. “Ta!” he said with a grin as he followed Diana back to the kitchen. Brian stepped up behind Dan. “Mart take the last of the whipped cream?” he asked. “Huh? No. No, he left some.” Dan handed the spoon to Brian. “It’s good to see him eating again.” “Moms said something about that, but she didn’t go into detail.” Brian scooped some cream onto his slice of pie. “Should I be worried?” “I don’t know.” Dan shrugged. “He seems fine, now, but watching him face plant in the gym was pretty scary.” Brian nodded, his face solemn. “Let’s hope that was just a wake-up call and ‘Smarty-Marty’s’ back on track.” “Amen.” Dan picked up his plate and followed Brian back to join the others.  December 13, 1985 It was amazing how easy it was: Amazing, and a little disconcerting—although Mart did his best to push aside his concerns and rationalize his doubts. Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom of the hotel room he was sharing with three other members of his wrestling team, he washed the silver crochet hook he had acquired from his sister Trixie’s long forgotten knitting bag. After his accidental discovery on Thanksgiving, Mart had run into a small dilemma--how best to trigger his gag reflex? He’d spent three days experimenting with different techniques. He hadn’t been able to recreate the reaction he’d had to the thick laxative, so he’d tried his finger. He’d ended up biting both his finger and his knuckles. His toothbrush was the right size, but getting it out of the way had proved a challenge. An unsharpened pencil had been his next choice, but he’d ended up swallowing the eraser. Finally, in desperation, he’d spotted Trixie’s abandoned knitting bag on a shelf in the garage. There it was. Eight inches long, metal with a rounded hook on the end. It was perfect--portable and completely sanitary. After use, he could wash it with hot water, add a little rubbing alcohol, and he was good to go. Mart rinsed his mouth and popped in a piece of gum. His throat was a little sore, but his body was ready for the tournament weigh-in. He tucked his tool back into his shaving kit and went to join his team for the walk to the arena.  December 15, 1985 Wimpy’s was crowded. The school bus had deposited the victorious wrestling team in front of the high school. Dan had been waiting for him, and Mart had climbed into the cab of the truck, still on an adrenaline high from the meet and starving. Evidently, he wasn’t the only one. It appeared that the entire team had converged on Wimpy’s for an impromptu Sunday night burger. Because it was just the two of them, Dan and Mart had decided to forgo their usual booth, taking seats at the counter instead. While waiting for their meals, Mart gave his best friend the highlights of his two-day tournament. Once the plates were set in front of them, though, all of his concentration was centered on his succulent double burger with cheese, pickles, lettuce, tomato, grilled onions and double Thousand Island dressing. He took a bite, allowing the multitude of tastes and textures to overwhelm his senses. The tangy sauce. The sweetly caramelized onions. The cool, crisp, delectable lettuce and tomato. It was heaven on earth. Swallowing, he reached for a fry, vaguely aware that Dan was talking to him. “So,” Dan said, reaching for his soda, “I went ahead and asked him. Maybe we’re onto something, this time.” Mart was in the middle of his bite, savoring the crispy, salted outer shell of the French fry when he realized Dan was waiting for a response. Taking a deep drink of his chocolate shake, he quickly tried to remember what Dan had said. Something about his ever evolving relationship with Regan. That was it. Swallowing, Mart said earnestly, “I really hope it works out for you guys.” It must have been the right answer, because Dan turned his attention to his food, allowing Mart to do the same. For the next several minutes, they ate in companionable silence. As Mart swallowed the last morsel of his burger, Dan asked, “So, since our college classes are done, do you want to patrol with me between class and practice? I don’t mind driving.” “What about Tess?” Mart asked, reaching for another fry. “She’s going to be doing business,” Dan said with a grin. “And with Brian and Jim home, I’ll be lucky if she has time to come to my game Thursday.” He looked at Mart. “You have a meet on Wednesday, right?” Mart looked down at his nearly empty plate. “Yeah. Multiple duel meet: Central and Eastchester.” He sneaked a glance at his watch. About 10 minutes, he thought. Ten minutes before digestion would really start. “I know the guys are coming to the games on Tuesday and Thursday,” Dan was saying, “I figured they’d want to go watch you roll on the ground.” “I don’t know.” Mart chewed on his lower lip. “I guess. They both played basketball, but neither of them wrestled, so…” He shrugged and chanced another glance at his watch. Time was slipping away. “Tess and I’ll drag them along,” Dan said, thumping him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the tournament.” “No big,” Mart said, beginning to feel a little antsy. The restaurant was too crowded and he needed to take care of business before the calories began to count. “I only wrestled five times in three days. You’d have been bored. Heck, I was bored.” He forced a laugh. Three more minutes. Frowning, he started patting his pockets. “Uh oh.” “What?” Dan asked. “I think I left my wallet in my bag. Can I borrow the keys?” “Sure.” Dan fished his keys out of his jeans pocket and tossed them to Mart with a look Mart didn’t have time or concentration to decipher. He snagged a plastic spoon and a handful of napkins on his way out the door. The night air was chilly on his overheated face, and it felt refreshing. Hurrying around the corner of Wimpy’s, Mart cast a quick glance around to insure he was truly alone. He was. Taking a deep breath he leaned forward behind the holly bush and stuffed the spoon into his mouth until the bowl hit the back of his throat. His abdominal muscles clenched, and he vomited into the snow. The beginning was always the worst. Once the heaving stopped, there was a second of disorientation, followed by relief and a surge of adrenaline. Mart stepped back, wiped his mouth with his napkins and wrapped them around the spoon. Popping in a piece of gum, he chewed until he had worked up a mouthful of saliva. Then he spit, clearing most of the sour taste from his mouth. Kicking snow over his mess, he reached for another piece of gum as he stepped back into the light. That’s when he saw it. “Ooh. Yuck,” he muttered to himself, irritation warring with concern. “Vomitus grossus.” There, on the sleeve of his letterman jacket, splash back from his latest bout. He swiped at the bigger chunks with his spoon-wrapped napkins, then dropped his arm into the snowpack lining the path, wiping it clean. Or at least, mostly clean. But now his sleeve was wet. Mart looked at his watch. He’d been gone long enough to raise Dan’s already suspicious nature. Biting his lip, he hurried back towards the door. Inspiration struck ten feet away, and he deliberately “slipped”, sending himself crashing gracelessly into the shoveled nearest the entrance. He scrambled to his feet, dusting snow from his now uncomfortably damp clothing and reentered the restaurant. Dan glared at him. “Damn, Mart,” he growled. “I was beginning to think you’d stuck me with the check.” His eyes widened, “What happened to you?” “I must have been channeling my less coordinated female sibling,” Mart quipped, knowing his face was red. He dug his wallet out of his slightly sodden pocket and slapped some bills on the counter. “I nose dived into a snow bank.” Dan laughed. “Let’s get you home, then.” I’ll turn on the heater, but you’re going to have to come up with something good to keep me quiet about this one. Something really good.” Mart groaned loudly. “Blackmail. I should have known.” He put a chagrined look on his face, but he was truly relieved. Disaster averted.  Wednesday, December 18, 1985 129 pounds. His throat was sore. His glands felt a little swollen, but he had reached the elusive 129, and held it steady for almost a whole week. Mart felt like dancing an elated jig. He looked in the mirror and smiled. Jim and Brian were both in the stands tonight. This was his chance to do something neither of them had done. He was ready.  In the Stands The Bob-Whites were clustered together, center court, about halfway up the bleachers. Dan, hair still wet from his after practice shower, climbed over a few people and slid in between Tessa and Brian. “Did I miss anything?” he asked. “Sweaty guys rolling on the ground?” Brian asked drily. Honey, sitting next to Brian, smacked him gently on the knee. “Stop that,” she said. “We’re here to support Mart. Besides,” she added, a wicked glint in her golden eyes, “it isn’t any worse than watching sweaty guys in short shorts toss around a ball.” Before Brian could respond, Tessa leaned across Dan and said slyly, “I rather enjoy certain aspects of…the game.” “They certainly do put on a show,” Di chimed in. “But baseball…” “…gives you more time to appreciate the…action.” Tess and Di finished together. Honey and Trixie joined in the laughter. Trixie, sitting with Jim and Di one riser down answered Dan’s original question. “JV went first. Sleepyside just had their second match. Eastchester goes against Central first. They’re only up to the 119 pound class.” Brian groaned. “So, we’ve got what? Five or six more classes to sit through before Mart gets his six minutes?” “No,” Dan said flatly. “Two more. 119 and 125. Then Mart.” “Mart’s wrestling at 130?” Brian was incredulous, his dark eyes narrowing. “How is that possible?” “Look.” Dan pointed toward the floor of the gym. “There’s Mart.” Brian followed Dan’s finger. His eyes widened and his voice hardened as he turned to Dan. “Do we need to talk?” Dan nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think we do. Outside?” “Right behind you.” Brian dropped a kiss on Honey’s head and followed Dan back out of the stands.  “What the hell is going on?” Dan was a little startled. Brian rarely swore. Still, he could understand it. Gesturing for Brian to follow him, he led him into the annex between the gym and the stairwell. Sitting down on the steps, he shrugged. “That’s what I tried to tell you on the phone on Sunday, Bri. Something is wrong with Mart.” “No kidding.” Brian dropped down next to him. “Moms said he’d been dieting,” Brian used his fingers to make air quotes around the word, “and I know he passed out from fasting before Thanksgiving, and Dr. Ferris said his potassium was a little low, but he seemed fine then. He ate like…like he always does.” “I know.” Dan ran a hand through his still damp hair. “But he disappears for a few minutes right after eating. He’s been doing it since Thanksgiving. Eat. Go to the bathroom…or to get something he forgot…and then back. Every time.” He sighed. “Look, Brian, the reason I called you Sunday night was because…well…Mart and I went to Wimpy’s. Not ten minutes after he finished eating, he remembered that he left his wallet in the truck.” Dan shook his head, his expression grim. “He was lying. His wallet was in his jacket pocket. I saw him put it there. He was gone for ten minutes, and when he came back in, he was all wet. He gave me some lame story about pulling a Trixie and falling in the snow, but…” Dan sighed. “But what?” “When we got in the truck, and I turned on the heat?” Brian nodded, encouraging Dan to continue. “He smelled like puke. I didn’t notice at first, but as the truck warmed up, it was there. And this fell out of his gym bag.” He held out a wrapped square. “Not drugs,” Brian whispered prayerfully. “Please not drugs.” He took the square, turning it over in his hand. “Is it candy?” “It’s a laxative,” Dan told him. “Read it. It’s chocolate flavor, according to the wrapper. The kind that are sold over the counter at any drug store.” “Oh, God!” Brian clenched his fist around the square. “Are you telling me you think Mart’s bulimic?” “Umm. That’s what he says when he’s hungry,” Dan said, sure his confusion was evident. “No.” Brian shook his head. “I mean, yes, bulimic can mean hungry, but I’m talking about anorexia/bulimia. It’s an eating disorder.” “That’s what that singer chick died from a couple of years ago, right?” “Yes.” Brian agreed. “We studied it in my psychology class last year. Anorexia nervosa is when gir…people starve themselves because their brains tell them they’re fat, even when they aren’t. Bulimia nervosa is when they eat and then either vomit, use diuretics and/or laxatives to get rid of the food. It’s called purging. As in, binging and purging.” “What about exercising?” Dan asked. “Mart’s been pushing himself hard during weight training.” “Excessive exercising can happen with both anorexia and bulimia,” Brian answered. “It’s a mental issue, as well as a physical one. It has to do with body image and stuff. What I don’t understand is why? Mart’s always been fine. He loves food. He’s active and popular. What would trigger something like this?” Dan hesitated. “The wrestling coach wanted to him to drop weight so he could wrestle in the lower class. Mart wants to letter, so…” “That’s stupid,” Brian said tugging at his hair in frustration. “He’s already lettered in baseball and basketball. I don’t know why he didn’t just stick with basketball.” “I don’t know the answer to that,” Dan told him. “And I don’t know the answer to this either. What are we going to do?”  They watched. Brian and Dan let Jim in on their secret concern, but they kept it from the girls—and their parents. After all, what real evidence did they have? Mart was eating. No one but Dan had witnessed anything out of the ordinary. None of the young men felt completely confident about that decision, but in the end, they all agreed. For the time being, they would watch and wait.  December 27,1985 Mart had truly enjoyed the past week. Once the big meet had concluded, he was free of wrestling and its pressures for almost two full weeks. After winning three out of his four matches, he was feeling strong and successful. If his brother seemed a bit subdued, Mart could put it down to Brian’s lack of interest and experience with the sport of wrestling. After the meet, they had all gone to Wimpy’s to celebrate. Mart had eaten with relish, secure in the knowledge that he had over a week before he needed to worry again about weighing in. That didn’t stop him from pushing himself both during his last two days of weight training nor from the extra running he had slipped in between patrolling the preserve with Dan and dinner. The Wheelers’ Christmas party on the Saturday before Christmas had been a happy event as well with plenty of delicious food and time with his friends. He’d felt a little bloated after the feast, so he’d popped a couple of laxatives that night. Sunday hadn’t been as pleasant, but Mart considered it a trade-off. He’d been more careful with his intake on Monday and Tuesday, but those Christmas cookies had almost been his undoing. He’d eaten eight after a morning of sledding with Bobby, Diana and the twins. They’d tasted so good with the mugs of hot cocoa Mrs. Lynch had made he hadn’t been able to stop. It had been a little more difficult to rid himself of them, what with five young children demanding his attention, and a surprising lack of empty toilets in the Lynch manor. It would have been more difficult at home, however. Brian seemed to have lost any sense of privacy or personal space during his second year of college. He was sticking to Mart like a shadow. Christmas had been almost laughable. Every move Mart made, Brian was right beside him. Or behind him. Dinner had been delicious, as always. Moms’ juicy turkey and moist, crunchy dressing as the centerpiece, of course, but Trixie had come through with a surprisingly delicious casserole of sweet potatoes and pineapple, and Mart had made his own version of Dan’s mashed potatoes with garlic and ginger. Even Brian had managed to read and execute the recipe for green bean casserole that was printed on the can of fried onions. It had been a fun family time, full of laughter and camaraderie, but once again, every time Mart turned around, Brian was hovering at his elbow. Boxing Day had been all his. Trixie and Brian had gone off with Jim, Honey and the Wheelers. Dan and Tessa were visiting friends in the City, and the Lynches were visiting family. Mart had reveled in having his room and his life all to himself for nearly twelve hours. He’d gone for a long run, done several sets of sit-ups and push-ups, eaten some of the ever-present cookies and fudge, and then promptly relieved his stomach of them in the privacy of the upstairs bathroom without the annoyance of someone banging on the door and asking if he was done yet. Tonight was the start of the annual BWG after Christmas house party. They would begin with a starlight ride through the preserve, followed by pizza, movies and games at the Manor House. The Wheelers were in New York City and wouldn’t return until New Year’s Eve, so it was just the Bob-Whites and Miss Trask—and Miss Trask was a great sport, for a chaperone.  The horses had been taken care of and three extra large pizzas reduced to mere crumbs and cheese strings. Now, the whole gang was gathered in the game room arguing genially over movies. Mart tossed Dan a soda and grabbed his own before opening a bag of potato chips and helping himself to a handful. He was a little worried about the pizza. He’d eaten five slices. One of them had been vegetarian, but still, five was a lot. Excusing himself, he slipped down the hall to the guest room he would share with Dan. He didn’t notice the three pair of eyes that followed him, nor did he see Dan and Brian share a look. In the en suite bathroom, under the sink, there was a scale. Mart locked the door, turned on the light, removed the scale and stepped on. The numbers spun, landing between 136 and 137. Mart blinked his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. No way, he thought. No way did I gain eight pounds in eight days. He stepped off and took off his shoes. After a moment of thought, he stripped off his jeans and socks as well. He unbuttoned his blue plaid flannel shirt, too, just to be safe. He didn’t want to get back on the scale. Instead, he took the time to fold his clothes first, even going so far as to strip off his t-shirt. Standing in his boxers, he couldn’t delay any longer. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tried it again. 135. He wanted to cry. Six pounds wasn’t as bad as eight, but it was still bad. He couldn’t move; his brain struggling with the information. Eight days, six without inducing vomiting, and he’d gained six pounds. He had to be back at weight by January 8. He had ten days to cut the weight. It only took you eight to gain it, the little voice in his head reminded him. That gives you two more to lose it. You can do it. Mart looked in the mirror, his reflection staring bleakly back at him. “But what if I don’t want to?” he whispered to himself. You have to. If you don’t, you’ll be a failure. A fat failure. “Shut up!” he told the voice, putting his hands on either side of his head. “Just shut up.” A knock on the door brought him back to reality. The door handle rattled, but he ignored it, and the voice calling his name. No distractions. Not now. It was time to regain control. He forced himself off of the scale. He shoved it back under the sink cabinet and pulled on his t-shirt and jeans. His socks went on next. You’re stalling, the voice whispered. “I know,” Mart answered himself. He knew what he had to do. He reached for his shaving kit.  When Mart left, conversation among the male BWGs stopped. The girls noticed. “What?” Trixie asked, her blue eyes darting suspiciously between Jim, Dan and Brian. “What are you three up to? You’re secretive. You’ve been sticking to Mart like you’re trying to wear his socks. What’s going on?” Jim couldn’t lie. He squirmed a little under his girlfriend’s gaze and blurted, “We think Mart might be making himself throw up to lose weight.” Trixie’s mouth dropped open in shock, Honey gasped and Diana burst into tears. Honey recovered first. “How long have you thought this?” she asked, “and how come you didn’t tell us?” Dan stood up. “I’ll go after him,” he said. Brian nodded and tried to explain. “Dan’s suspected for a little while, but he didn’t have proof until last week. I know we should have told you, but we didn’t want to worry you until we knew.” He put his hands up defensively. “The three of us have been keeping close tabs on Mart. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t done anything stupid while we’ve been on him.” Tessa glared at him, her arms around Diana. “You should have told us, but I’ll come back to that. What do we need to do?” Diana raised her head and wiped her eyes. “I knew,” she whispered. “Well, I suspected.” She sniffed. “When we went sledding with the kids, Mart disappeared after we had our cocoa and cookies. He was gone for a while. He didn’t say anything, but one of the maids asked if the twins were sick because the hall bathroom was…well…” She covered her face with her hands. “I just figured Mart had too many cookies. It happens. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass him.” “We’re going to have to do something,” Dan said from the doorway, his face pale. “He’s locked in the bathroom. I can’t hear anything, but he isn’t answering.” Jim gave Dan a knowing look. “Can you?” he asked. “Yeah.” Dan pulled out his pocketknife. “Let’s go.” Trixie was already gone. They ran to catch up, but she was already pounding both fists on the door. “Mart! Mart!” she yelled. “Martin Belden! You open this door right now!” Jim picked her up and moved her out of the way, allowing Dan to pop the lock on the door. Brian shoved it open, revealing Mart kneeling before the porcelain toilet, crochet hook poised for action. Brian reacted instinctively, smacking the metal tool out of his brother’s hand and grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “What are you trying to do to yourself, Mart?” “I… I…Let me go. Let me go! I have to…I need…” Mart pulled away and dropped back to the ground, searching for his crochet hook. “Stop it!” Brian roared, grabbing again for the younger boy. “I’m not going to let you do this.” He managed to get hold of his brother again, this time around the waist, dragging him all the way out of the bathroom and pushing him roughly onto one of the beds. “You can’t do this!” “I have to!” Mart was frantic, his eyes wild. “You don’t understand. I have to get rid of it. I have to!” “Why?” Trixie stepped up to the bed, nose to nose with her almost-twin. “You’re right, Mart. I don’t understand.” Her eyes were brimming with tears. “Tell me, Mart. Make me understand.” “I have to make weight,” Mart said, his voice still agitated. “I only have so many days, and there’s so much good stuff to eat, but I have to make weight. I don’t want to throw up, but I’ve gained six pounds since the last meet, Trix. I have to get it out. I have to get rid of it. I have to.” “This is about wrestling?” Brian asked, disgust in his voice. “You’re making yourself sick, putting your life in danger for wrestling? For cryin’ out loud! Did you suddenly become an idiot? Why didn’t you just stick with basketball?” Mart’s eyes blazed with fury. “Because you played basketball!” he spat. “It doesn’t matter how hard I play; I’m never going to be you, Brian. All I heard last year was, ‘too bad you don’t have your brother’s height’ and ‘you should have Brian show you how he does that’. You didn’t wrestle. Wrestling is mine. All mine. Only mine. But if I’m going to win, I have to be thinner. I have to cut weight. Coach says…” Brian stepped back, obviously shaken. “I don’t care what the coach says,” he said, his voice roiling with suppressed emotion. “Dr. Ferris said you were too thin. Your potassium was off, and God only knows what damage you’re doing to your internal organs, Mart. I’m not going to let you make yourself sick. I won’t.” He turned to Jim. “Call for an ambulance. He needs to be hospitalized.” “No!” Mart yelled, rising from the bed. “I’m not sick. I’ve got this. I’ve got it under control.” Brian shoved him back down. “You aren’t in control,” he said, each word dripping with rage. “Look at you. You can barely stand.” “Stop.” Tessa’s voice was calm but firm. “Stop, Brian. You’re only making it worse.” “She’s right,” Dan said. He shouldered past Brian and sat down next to Mart. “Listen, bro,” he said quietly. “You don’t want this, do you? Really?” Mart shook his head. “Then you need some help, right?” Mart nodded reluctantly. “Then let’s talk, okay? You and me. We’ll talk it out.” Another nod. “Good.” Dan turned his attention to the others. “Mart and I are going to talk. Jim, could you and Honey go fill Miss Trask in? I’m sure she’s wondering about the noise.” Jim nodded. “Whistle if you need anything.” “Will do.” Dan addressed the Beldens. “Trix? Why don’t you and Brian go downstairs and call your parents? They should know what’s happening.” “What is happening?” Brian asked, his arms folded across his chest. “Well,” Dan told him calmly, “I’m going to ask Tessa to call our friend Dr. Guthrie and see if she can see Mart tonight.” “On a Friday?” Brian asked skeptically. “At eight in the evening?” “I’ll call her emergency number,” Tessa suggested. “If she isn’t available, I’m sure she can recommend someone who is.” “Good idea.” Dan gave her a smile. “Diana and I are going to stay here and talk to Mart. Okay?” It must have been fine, because the five of them left to complete their assigned tasks. As the door closed behind them, Mart covered his face with his hands and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Diana moved first. She threw her arms around her boyfriend and rocked him against her body, making soothing sounds. Tears ran from her violet eyes, and she looked at Dan, pleading. Dan wrapped his arms around both of them, blinking hard to keep from tearing up. “We’ll get you through this, buddy. We love you. It’s going to be okay. I promise.” There was a soft knock and the door opened. “Danny?” Tessa said softly, “Dr. Guthrie says come now. She doesn’t do a lot of this kind of counseling, but she’s willing to meet with Mart and make a referral if needed.” “Thanks, Babe.” Dan turned to Mart. “You ready, Mart?” “No.” Mart wiped his face. “I don’t want to go by myself. Will you come with me?” “We both will.” Diana unwrapped herself from Mart and stood up, offering him her hand. “Come on. We’ll go together.” He took her hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet. Dan quietly gathered coats and Mart’s shoes. When they were all three ready, he ushered them into his pickup truck. Huddled in the center seat, Mart Belden took the first, difficult step on the road to recovery.  The Future Hana, Maui Mart’s admission stopped his wife cold. “We don’t have to go. Oh, Mart, sweetie, I never thought…” “No.” Mart touched her lips with his finger. “Don’t apologize.” He smiled gently. “Most of the time, I’m fine. I’ve been pretty solid for a long time. I’ve only had one relapse in the last four years, and that was almost eighteen months ago, right after I got to Arizona.” “You were all alone,” Diana whispered. “How did you manage?” He smiled. “I had a rough couple of weeks,” he admitted. “But I talked to my doctor—and Dan. I started keeping food and feeling journals, and it passed.” “I’m serious, Mart. We don’t have to do this. We can have a picnic on our own beach. Really.” “You really want to see this beach, don’t you?” She nodded. “Then we should go.” He grinned. “I know that Tess says it’s the most beautiful beach on the island, but do you know what Dan says?” She shook her head. “I can’t even imagine.” “He says that the beach is nice, but some of the ‘view’ would be better off wearing clothes.” Diana rolled her eyes and giggled. “Well, it is clothing optional. Not nudity required.” “Then let’s play it by ear,” Mart suggested. “I’m okay with that,” she agreed, “but you have to promise me something.” “What, wife?” “Well, husband, you need to promise me you’ll tell me if you’re at all uncomfortable. Promise that you won’t shut me out.” He kissed her. “I promise. Now grab your bag and let’s get moving before the sun gets too hot to hike.”  They parked at One ‘Ele’ele--a fine beach in its own right. All black sand and lava flow, it had a stark beauty that belied the rough surf for which it was known. The goal, though, was over the hill made out of the aforementioned lava rock ridge overgrown with native greenery. It was a bit of a hike to the beach known as ‘Ekena Ku’ono but as they crossed over top, the half-hidden trail opened up and became an actual path. They paused at the top to take in the view. Mart gazed out, the people not even registering as he drank in the beauty that was ‘Ekena. The sand was technically black, but it glowed green with olivine chips. The water was calmer, the lava flow making a natural bay and keeping the rough surf diverted around the cove, while palm trees gave a fair amount of shade around the perimeter of the area. It was breathtaking. “Wow!” Diana breathed, reaching for Mart’s hand. “It really is like paradise.” “It’s incredible,” he agreed. “I can see why it’s named after the Garden of Eden.” He pulled her close and whispered, “Maybe that’s why it’s clothing optional. No fig leaves.” She giggled, tipping her head back and tempting him to kiss her. “No apples, either. But I did pack a mango.” “Mmmmm.” He kissed her. “We can play Adam and Eve. With a mango.” “Sounds…tempting.” Diana returned his kiss and gave his hand a tug. “Let’s go.” They made their way down to the beach. Mart tried to be discreet, but deliberately not noticing the unclothed beachcombers seemed almost as awkward as staring would have been. It was still early, and the beach was not crowded. He counted seventeen other people—at least ten of whom were definitely opting out of clothing. Diana chose a spot near the rockery, just off the high tide mark and spread out their quilted beach blanket. Mart unpacked their large umbrella and planted it in the sand where they could leave it closed until the sun necessitated some shade. Plopping down next to his bride, he relished the ocean breeze against his skin. “Nice choice,” he said. “Thank you,” she told him pertly. “I do have an eye for detail, you know.” “I do know.” Mart looked around. “Maximum observation potential without being obvious. Close enough to the water to be able to enjoy the view without any…distractions. Well done, wife.” Slowly and deliberately, she pulled her sundress up over her head, revealing a very tiny string bikini in her signature purple. “Would you mind retouching my sunscreen, husband?” She stretched out on her stomach, hands reaching toward him. “Who needs an apple?” he teased, reaching for the tube of waterproof lotion. He started with her shoulders. “I’ll do you, if you’ll do me.” She turned her head. “Any time. Anywhere.” “Keep talking like that,” he whispered, “and I guarantee I won’t be able to go in the water without being arrested. Not even wearing my board shorts.” Diana giggled. “Optional, my love. Clothing is optional.” Rolling over, she sat up and grabbed his hand. “Look at them. Don’t stare, but look.” She quietly indicated an older couple standing hand-in hand in the water, completely au natural. “They aren’t worried about how the world sees them. They just see each other and the beauty of this place. Paradise. Eden before the fall. It’s beautiful. They’re beautiful.” Mart followed her gaze. From society’s view, the couple wouldn’t meet the current shallow standard of beauty. Too many years, too much sag and roll. But he could see Diana’s point. There was definitely something in the total lack of self-consciousness the nudists projected. He watched them wade out into the water and begin swimming in the gentle waves. “I get it,” he told her, knowing that he spoke the truth. He let his fingers play over her palm. “Do you think that will be us in twenty years?” he asked. “Me, all receding hairline and love handles. You, still gorgeous after all eighteen kids.” “We are not having eighteen kids!” Diana sputtered in mock horror. “Can you imagine the stretch marks?” “Well,” Mart countered, “if we do it like your parents, it’s only nine times, right?” “Not happening.” Diana turned to face him, cupping his face between her palms. “The nine pregnancies and eighteen kids, that is. You and I still madly in love and running naked in the surf? Yeah. That’s a definite.” He kissed her, her lips soft and warm against his. “It’s an absolute,” he agreed. “Ready to take the plunge?” she asked. He pulled back so he could look into her amazingly gorgeous eyes. “I don’t think I’m ready for skinny dipping in public. “ "You're perfect," she told him. "It breaks my heart that you can't see it." Mart smiled self-consciously. “I’m not there yet, Di. But I’ll keep trying. I promise to keep trying.” “That’s good enough,” she told him. “I’ll be right there with you because you will always be perfect to me. Perfect for me. I won’t ever let you forget it, and that’s my promise to you.” He kissed her again to seal the deal. Looking around again, he smiled. “Maybe tomorrow?” “Baby steps,” she responded. “If not tomorrow, then the next day.” She stood up and held out her hand. “How about regular swimming?” “I can handle that.” Mart took her hand and stood up. He stripped off his t-shirt and reached for the sunscreen. “Hey, speaking of baby steps, maybe tomorrow I’ll try that Speedo.” “One step at a time, husband.” Diana teased, reaching to rub in the lotion. “That’s the way we get there.” He grasped her hand. “Together. One step at a time.” They kicked off their shoes and walked into the waves.  Author Notes Many thanks to Susan and Mal who edited for me. This story did not turn out the way I originally intended. It was a Plot Bunny about Mart & Di going to a “clothing optional” beach. It was supposed to be silly and funny. But, Mart insisted that he had a story to tell. I fought him for almost three weeks, but I’ve learned not to argue with my characters. Mart’s story stands alone for now, but it will be integrated into the current storyline which will feature Regan’s backstory. I don’t intend to dwell on it, but there has been an impact on his relationship with Brian. At some point I hope to address those issues. The majority of this story takes place in 1985. In today’s world, Mart probably would not have been diagnosed with Bulimia. Shorter periods of a disorder with partial or full bulimic symptoms are categorized now as EDNOS (Eating Disorders Not Otherwise Specified). However, the long-range health issues remain the same as for one who fits the full diagnosis. I am not an expert on high school wrestling, but I did have a student wrestler back when John and I were youth group leaders. He spent a retreat not eating because he had to “cut weight”. Fortunately, he wised up a lot sooner than Mart. Also, since the deaths of three college athletes due to complications from EDNOS related exercise/overexertion in the 90’s, wrestling rules have changed to be more flexible on weight classes, and more protective of student health. For more information, you can look up Billy Saylor, Joseph LaRossa and Jeff Reese. In the 1980s basketball players used to wear much shorter, snugger shorts. “That singer chick” is Karen Carpenter, who died in 1983 from complications due to Anorexia and Bulimia. The two beaches I mentioned are not real and do not, to my knowledge exist. Little Beach at Makena on Maui is the basis for my ‘Ekena. ‘Ekena is Hawai’ian for Eden. The food and feeling journals Mart mentioned are fairly standard part of recovering from bulimia. The individual tracks what they ate, how they felt about it and how full they became. A scale of 1-10 is often used, with the target fullness being 5-7. The story of Mart’s eating disorder pretty much begins and ends here. I will not be going into his recovery period because it isn’t all that exciting. He had a problem for a short time (about two months). When he made the step into recovery, he quit wrestling. The subject may come up in future stories, but, as he said, he’s dealt with it pretty successfully, so we’re going to let it ride. Speedo is a swimsuit brand. Men’s Speedos tend to be snug, and often very small. Miscellaneous Other Stories Library 1_Misc_Welcome_Page.html4_Other_Stories.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2