CWE Picture # 46
This wasn’t what he had expected. The shaft of sunlight seemed to glare through the window, weak on warmth, but high on the painful to the eyes factor. Leaning back against the wall, Mart sat in the deep window seat of his new home and pondered both his life and his recent decisions.
He pulled his bare legs closer to his body and stared out the window. Not that there was much to see: Just an unending stretch of glaring white. Intellectually, he knew—had known—that it snowed in Arizona. Flagstaff averages one hundred inches per year, his brain of encyclopedic trivia told him. But here? Here it wasn’t supposed to snow. Here was the desert—sand dirt and prickly pear cactus; seventy degrees and sunny in January. Instead, the terrain glowed barren and white for as far as he could see, isolating him, reminding him of how alone he truly was.
He’d never really been alone, Mart realized. He’d grown up surrounded by family, the erstwhile ‘middle child’ given the age difference between his almost –twin sister and the youngest Belden sibling, Bobby. In college he’d lived first in the dorms, and then in an off campus apartment with two other students. Alone wasn’t something he was used to, and he wasn’t really sure he liked it. He gave a derisive snort. He’d dreamed of solitude. Time to himself, to study or relax without the never -ending buzz of those surrounding him—sharing his space. Funny, how he missed it. The silence was deafening.
Mart had never really understood that saying. How could silence be deafening? It was silent for crying out loud. Now, now though, he understood. Without the presence of sound, he wasn’t sure he could hear. The lack of noise made him feel deaf—and desolate, like the unending sea of white outside of his new home. He sighed, secretly relieved to hear the whiny huff of his own breath, assuring himself that his auditory senses were still intact and functioning. Pulling the edges of his lightweight windbreaker tighter around his body, he looked out again at the endless field of snow. Barren and cold. Empty.
Just the way he felt inside. As if in response, his stomach growled at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing but a slice of toast all day. With another sigh, Mart untangled himself from his window seat and padded quietly across the hardwood floor, expertly maneuvering around the scattered boxes waiting expectantly for him to open them and finally put away the contents.
He ignored them. So far, he’d only managed to unpack the bare necessities—bedding and towels, the barest of kitchen necessities and one box of summer clothing—hence the running shorts he was wearing despite the uncommonly cold weather. One brown cardboard box sat on the cabinet of his galley kitchen, it’s open flaps seeming to reproachfully remind him that he needed to finish moving into his new home.
Mart pulled the box off of the counter and placed it firmly on the floor. Rummaging around, he found a saucepan and a soup mug. Placing the pan on the stove top, he considered his options. He didn’t turn on the burner. Instead he took the soup mug with him as he perused his relatively well stocked shelf of canned goods. Removing a can of chicken noodle soup, he rolled it in his hand. Comfort food. Just what he needed. He opened the can and dumped the contents into the mug. Adding the proper amount of water, he placed the mug in the microwave and pushed start.
As the mug rotated on the circular glass try, Mart found his thoughts wandering back to his pantry shelf. There was a package of cookies in the back; chocolate chip—crispy and sweet. His mouth watered and he envisioned himself opening the shiny paper sheath and eating a cookie. He could almost feel the sandy texture of the crumbs, the silky dark sweetness of the chips, the slightly scratchy feel as it slid down his throat, eased along by a swig of icy cold milk.
The microwave dinged, bringing him back to reality—and his lunch. Grabbing a spoon—silverware, plates, bowls and cups were about the only things he’d managed to unpack in his kitchen—he carried his food back to the window. Alternately sipping and spooning, he ate, his mouth registering the taste and texture of each bite. The hollow in his stomach was filling, but the hollow in his soul was still gaping wide, hungering.
Mart’s thoughts swung back to the bag of cookies sitting less than thirty feet from his current locale. They beckoned to him, seductive, promising fulfillment, but still, he resisted. It was false, he well knew. One cookie would lead to two. Two to four. Four to eight, and before he knew it, the package would be empty, his belly bloated and miserable, and he would be reaching for a spoon to help him disgorge. It was a given. It had already happened once since his abrupt departure from Sleepyside.
Six days ago. One week to the day from his arrival in Arizona. His boxes had only just arrived, and with them a lilac scented letter on all too familiar purple stationery. With trepidation, he slit open the top of the enveloped and removed the letter—cursing his weakness, wishing he could simply throw it away. Instead, he read the words Diana had written to him. Words that drove home how wrong he had been. Words that explained her plans for the upcoming year, and her reasons for not immediately sharing them with him. She had laid it all out, but even if she hadn’t, he would have read the recrimination between the lines, tasting the pain he had caused them both. With every word, the fissure within his heart cracked a little more, causing the hole inside of him to gape wide.
He had folded the letter carefully and slid it back into the envelope. Dropping it into the top drawer of his second hand dresser, he picked up his wallet and jogged down the five blocks to the corner donut shop. Once inside, he had spent fifteen minutes just inhaling the sweet scents before purchasing two dozen donuts and carrying them back to his new home—where he proceeded to try and fill the hole with massive quantities of sugar and fat.
It took two hours, and at the end, his teeth ached and the hole still gaped wide. Disgusted with himself, Mart lay prostrate on his newly purchased mattress and reviewed his life. Everything came back—in Technicolor. Brian’s disappointment and hurt. Mr. Lynch’s words. Diana’s tears. His mother’s confusion and his father’s hand on his shoulder as Peter shook his head and told him, “I can’t say as I agree, Mart, but you have to do what you feel best.” Tears streamed from his eyes as his stomach roiled and burned.
Desperately, he had pulled himself to his feet and started tearing open boxes, looking for something, anything to control the pain and bring relief. His eyes landed on a wooden spoon. Grabbing it, he stumbled into his tiny bathroom, and kneeling before the porcelain throne, used the spoon handle to purge his body of his donut binge. It felt wonderful and horrible at the same time. Leaning back against the wall, Mart reached forward and flushed away the evidence of his transgression.
The exhilaration of control began to fade, replaced with guilt and self loathing. It had been nearly five years since his last bout with bulimic binging and purging. Five years washed down the drain—or rather flushed down the toilet. Rising, he rinsed his mouth, splashed his face with cool water and gave his teeth a quick but thorough brushing. Hollow and haunted blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror. Control yourself, not the damned food, his reflection seemed to say. “I don’t want to do this,” Mart muttered to himself. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”
He dried his hands and stepped out of the bathroom, looking around his apartment. It was small, but very nice, with light pine hardwood floors and soft cream walls. The openness was cluttered with the moving boxes scattered about, but he could easily set things right—starting with himself. With determination, he had walked purposefully into his bedroom and sat down on the bed. He pulled his address book from the nightstand drawer and flipped through the pages, stopping at the M section and touching the business card tucked inside. Reaching for the telephone, he dialed the long –distance number and held his breath as it rang once, twice, three times. The call was picked up and a sleepy voice answered, “Hello.”
Guiltily, Mart glanced at his digital clock. It was after midnight in New York. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Miller,” he apologized. “This is Martin Belden. I’m in Arizona, and I completely forgot about the time difference. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll call back tomorrow.”
“Wait.” The voice on the other end was fully awake now, her voice calm and smooth. “If you’re calling me, Mart, there must be a reason. How can I help you?”
She was in earnest, he could tell. So Mart had opened his heart and his mouth and let his tale spill forth.
Six days ago. The emptiness remained, but he had begun to fill it with his new job and coworkers instead of food and the illusion of controlled. He liked his job, and had been enjoying working in the desert environment—right up to the unexpected freak snowstorm.
Now he was cooped up alone with his thoughts, his failed attempt at unpacking, and a bag of chocolate chip cookies singing their siren song, trying to lead him all the way through temptation and into destruction. Dr. Miller’s words rang in his head. “You control yourself, Mart. You are strong. You have the power. Slips happen. Your job is to forgive yourself and move on. It’s okay to feel. Fill the void with activity and friends. Food is fuel. You consume it, not the other way round. It doesn’t control you.”
“Activity and friends,” Mart mumbled, looking out again at the sea of white. He was snowbound, and although he was friendly with his coworkers, they had not yet reached friend status. He glanced again at his boxes. Arizona was his home for the next year. Maybe it was time he actually moved in and made his house his home.
Mart got up and headed toward a box and hesitated. Picking up the cordless phone from its charger by his futon sofa he dialed a number he had had memorized for years. While the phone rang, trying to reach its connection, Mart ripped the tape from the box and started unpacking. On the other side of the continent, a familiar voice answered with an abrupt, “Hello?”
Mart shifted the phone and said, “Hey, Dan! It’s Mart. Dude! Hell may not have frozen over yet, but Arizona certainly has…”
When his best friend laughed, Mart felt the hole inside close just a little. Maybe this would be okay, after all.
Author Notes
Sending a thankful shout-out to Mal for her edit. “Thanks, Mal!”
This is a follow up to The Naked Truth. Mart mentioned that he’d had a lapse when he got to Arizona. The picture made me think about that lapse--how a person used to always being around people would react to sudden isolation.
Arizona did have an unexpected snow--just not the year this would have taken place. I ask you to suspend your disbelief, please.
