Burnt Tongues

  Casing my second Whopper, I hear those pillow-soft lips say, “Because it might be plastic explosives.”

  I’m thinking, Shoulders back.

  Look left. Look right.

  Center.

  “That’s ammonium sulfide, you twit,” Dr. Allen sneers. “And three-to-one odds says she’s back on the pills. Any takers?”

  Apidexin, Fenphedra, and DecaSlim.

  Leptovox and Lipofuze.

  They all fail 93 percent of the time.

  The real trick to finding your success story out of the ten thousand possible disappointments is to remove your willpower and obedience from the equation. Find the method that allows you to be the most yourself and let time do

  the rest.

  For as long as it takes.

  Another month.

  Another twenty-four pounds and three dress sizes later, my bare ass is rolling in crinkly paper as eleven chocolate éclairs exact their revenge on my stomach, counting one . . . two . . . four liver spots on Dr. Spicer’s shaft each time it withdraws from me.

  He heaves, “God, you’re so small.”

  My gaze darts from the russet spots to teddy bear wallpaper framing a brochure rack of heart disease, prostate cancer, and low blood sugar.

  I’m reading autism . . . brain tumors . . . herpes as aluminum-colored tufts bump against my pelvis again and again, the cramps in my stomach forcing a groan out of me.

  Dr. Spicer’s eyes go dry and wide. “Are you coming?” The Looney Tunes necktie billows and rebounds off his stomach as he plunges me harder, the pasty chicken-skin cock throbbing. “You’re coming, right?”

  . . . muscular dystrophy . . . mental retardation . . .

  Smile and wave . . . wave to the crowd.

  I grunt, “Uh, sure.”

  But he’s already turning me into his personal Twinkie as the pumps slow down to one prolonged deep thrust, the excess man-cake batter seeping out along the edges.

  Dripping.

  He’s panting, pressing that tie against his forehead, his cheeks—the smell of coffee breath stymied by Porky Pig and Wile E. Coyote as chunks of white slap tan and taupe linoleum. The doc allows the sodden fabric to slip between his fingers, assuming aloud, “You’re on birth control, right?” as the white ropes bungee jump and hang from his cock.

  Dropping.

  I try not to frown as another wave of cramps sweep through, and my fingers break a couple of nails when they tunnel into the sides of the examination table. Groaning again.

  “It was good for me, too.” He smiles, penguin-walking over to the counter with the pants handcuffing his ankles, pulling a few paper towels out of the tin dispenser, and wiping his rod off.

  “Seriously, though.” He wads up the damp paper, pitching it as my vagina continues to salivate rabid. “You are on birth control, right?”

  So like a man to shoot first and ask questions later.

  I’m sighing, “Breckenridge Medical Group—please hold,” when my headset beeps, and Dr. Spicer finally pulls out the pad of scripts, putting pen to paper as I search for anything within arm’s reach to clean myself off with.

  “I’m going to tack some Levonelle on here . . . just in case,” he mutters.

  And finally, I snap, “I’m already on fucking birth control. Now, can you hand me a goddamn paper towel?”

  This fall from grace has already begun.

  Not quite at goal weight, but already I’m settling back into my former horrible self, little Miss Miranda Bitch-ard: supercunt. Just like those boys so long ago, the doctors all scratch their heads, wondering how the docile secretary became such an ice queen, using the water cooler as their think tank.

  (11:04 a.m.) Dr. Langley: “My money’s on meth.”

  (11:04 a.m.) Dr. Ulmer: “Got a grand on home colonics and speed.”

  (11:05 a.m.) Dr. Deville: “Well, whatever she’s doing—it’s sure as hell having some side effects.”

  The rumors are only heard in sound bites, but not one of the doctors ever stops to consider how my new bestie might be encouraging this behavior. We become whom we surround ourselves with.

  (1:04 p.m.) Nurse Fowler: “Let’s do lunch, hooker. We’ve got to do damage control before your gown fitting at the boutique.”

  My headset beeps and I say, “Breckenridge—hold on a sec.”

  As partner in crime, Nurse Heather Fowler removes various bottles and containers out of a Macy’s shopping bag.

  Popping my third Percocet of the day, I quickly do some mental math as to how long it’s going to be before another script refill has to be banged out of Dr. Richards or Camden or Lacey.

  Heather catches that faraway look in my eye, suggesting, “You might want to chill out on the Percs if you plan on staying conscious, babe.”

  So many months and dress sizes later, D-day is right around the corner, and the cramps are at their absolute worst. This game that started out innocently, yet dangerously, has now become a systematic routine of maintenance and self-preservation. The means—although unknown to Nurse Fowler—are ferociously supported to their ends via supplements, cosmetics, and her been-there-done-that advice. It seems we’ve developed an accord of her living vicariously through me, as my beauty and vitality holds steadfast because of her.

  With mani-pedis. Exfoliation.

  High pressure tanning and deluxe hair care.

  Not even recrowned yet and already the royal treatment has begun.

  Heather hands me a tube and three bottles out of the Macy’s bag. “We’ve gotta control these breakouts unless you think the pizza face look is sexy.” After slamming another couple bottles on my workspace, she adds, “That was my attempt at humor, by the way.”

  The little green tube reads: Proactiv.

  Vitamins A, B6, and C get added to the collection.

  As I watch Nurse Fowler unpack, my fingertips routinely drum the wooden countertop, chipping another nail. It ricochets into the distance of office space.

  “That keeps happening because your calcium and zinc levels are too low,” she explains, removing another couple pill bottles, another tube of skin care. Her pointer finger draws level with my nose as she declares, “Nothing but high pulp screwdrivers for you, young lady.”

  If you’re a beauty queen on the comeback tour, never forget how your own personal nurse is just as important as having a fashion consultant, trainer, and nutritionist. You’re only as good as your corner, and it’s because of Heather that I haven’t fallen apart already as she finger-feeds me another legion of pills and supplements. More lotions and moisturizers.

  She orders me to, “Double up on the vitamin C until your gums stop bleeding,” and those get popped along with another four Excedrin. Another thiamin and niacin.

  “And here’s some B7 to stop the hair loss and dry skin.” Nurse Fowler places another couple tablets in my clammy palm before they’re chased with Diet Coke. She slides a few little expensive tubes my way, steals my soda, and uncaps an Evian for me, affectionately ordering me to, “Rinse and spit, ho-bag,” but the watery emission comes out looking like

  pink lemonade.

  Heather’s Korean carved fingernail taps each tube in turn, and she lists, “Disinfectant . . . shine and gloss . . . enamel

  repair . . .”

  But I’m shaking my bratty pretty face at her, giving the ol’ pouty frown that millions of dads everywhere fall prey to when there are toys to be picked up and shelved away.

  “That shit makes my gums hurt.” I take the poor-me approach, but I keep forgetting how Nurse Fowler sticks kids with hypos daily. This is nothing to her.

  “Your little vomiting stint did a lot of damage to your teeth,” the nurse lectures, pushing the first tube that much closer to me. “I mean,seriously . . . do you even know how acidic that shit is?” she asks in a how-the-hell-can-you-not-comprehend-this? sort of tone.

  Bulimia fails 92 percent of the time, but that was found out the hard way ages ago.

  When the headset beeps again, my so
re and bloody mouth says, “Breckenridge—hold.”

  “But it really, really hurts.” Adding pathetically as I sneak another Perc, “Like . . . really.”

  Nurse Fowler dons a conniving little smirk. “The mouth, Miranda, is like the vagina of the face.” She picks up the first tube and unscrews the plastic nipple cap.

  My lips instinctively curl tight against sore, bloody teeth.

  “Now that crown could be made of platinum and diamonds, but it won’t really matter in the end,” she tells me, squeezing a clear pearl-sized glob onto her forefinger. It draws so close that the bouquet of polish and disinfecting agents enter my nostrils without inhale.

  “Because no matter how you dress it up, no one likes a chipped, bloody vagina.”

  And again, my face goes all pouty and sad. For real this time.

  With the blob almost kissing my shuddering lower lip, super coach and BFF Nurse Heather Fowler demands, “Now smile, bitch,” before plunging the stinging digit into my mouth with a brushing motion. The gum fires hurt just enough to mute the cramps.

  Then Fowler gives a hopeless sigh, finger circuiting my gums, my teeth, saying for the millionth time, “Y’know, this would be a lot easier if you’d tell me what’s up with you.” But by my frown, she can already see this is a lost cause.

  Always remember how clichéd the road to skinny and beautiful can be.

  Even if you reach your goal weight, technically, you can still fail.

  “Too much of a good thing,” the saying goes.

  We can apply it here as the local seamstress of Pleasant Hill rushes me to the OR of her little shop, the chiffon black silk sliding off my bony shoulders as I stagger five Percs deep behind her, cramps raging nonetheless. The tailor positions my skeletal form before the wood-framed tri-fold mirror as Operation: Resize commences with needles being removed from the nearby tomato cushion to staple the Italian

  fabric taut.

  My body sways with the current of the gown that she’s pinching, those skinny bitch fingers of mine gripping the top of the mirror for stability.

  She says, “Miss, you have to hold still, or I’m going to stick you.”

  This fashion emergency came to pass an hour ago in the hotel room when my dress size had finally dipped subzero. All that vanity fitting and custom measurement—laid waste as the gown started to flow over my breasts and ribs and hips. Down to the floor.

  It’s my own fault, though. Nurse Fowler said this might happen.

  “If you don’t gain some weight the damn thing’s going to slide off in the stadium parking lot,” she warned me over lunch, pushing a Double Quarter Pounder or Wendy’s Baconator my way.

  This diet is 100 percent effective.

  “Been missing a few meals, I take it,” the shopkeep comments.

  A yellow band of notched tape belts what’s left of my waist. I struggle to read the numbers, but it’s all too blurry and my gums are bleeding again. “You wouldn’t happen to have any xylene, would you?” I mumble, little flecks of blood hitting the center mirror in front of me.

  “Never heard of that designer,” the seamstress tells me. “Or this Versayce you’re wearing.”

  She meant Versace.

  I meant oral disinfectant.

  “Well, the dress is beautiful, anyway,” she remarks, stepping back and examining her work. Not the pill-drunk, gaunt-faced woman wearing it. You can almost see her trying to imagine someone else in it by the way she’s squinting.

  I’m assured the gown will be ready before tomorrow night, then I put on my size 00 jeans and XXS blouse, both acquired from the junior’s department as that’s the only place where clothes still fit.

  The demographics have been broken along with all the rules, and as I wander into a little local pub looking for nothing more than a few sleep-aiding drinks before heading to the hotel, there’s some comfort in the fact that no matter what happens, this will all be over soon and I can get back to being myself: fat or thin or somewhere in the middle. And the middle sounds just fine at this point.

  I’ll wear my crown, smile, and wave.

  But I’ll be waving good-bye.

  When I wake up, the day is unknown, and the snide remarks are like nothing I’ve heard before.

  “How are you feeling today, Miss Pritchard?” the little bearded man in a white lab coat asks. His entire face is frowning, and his glasses magnify beady, disappointed eyes.

  “Feel free to answer,” he presses, resting the metallic clipboard in his lap. “The question wasn’t rhetorical.”

  My frail, punctured hands instinctively dart to my abdomen, feeling bandages and tubes under sterile white sheets. The cramps are gone, replaced by a new skin-level pain, but my fingers can’t decipher the Braille of the dressings as they smooth down my stomach and pelvis.

  “We took them out,” the doctor reveals, not bothering to hide the undertones of disgust in his voice, then writes something on the clipboard. He looks at me with pity, like I’m a wounded monster (and perhaps that’s true). “Tell me something, Miss Pritchard—is eighty-nine pounds thin enough, or would you like to speak with our staff dietician?”

  This is not a joke. This is not my first attempt.

  The insults have officially reached their polar opposite.

  From donut-hoarding heavyweight to walking-stick freak.

  Eighty-nine pounds means I’ve lost another five during my stay here.

  “Are we not answering questions today?”

  I press and circle my temples, eyes closed tight, and I can hear strands of bleached blonde snapping like brittle wheat, my eyelids pressure-cooking hot tears. “I was . . . supposed to wear the crown . . . and then wave to them,” I quaver, blinking wet salt.

  He sighs, telling me, “You’re not going to like this.” Chair legs scuff as the doctor stands. Lips pursed and brick red, he shuffles through the contents of the clipboard. He pinches a photograph and frames it in my view. “Did you not know about this?”

  I’m making the pouty prissy bitch face, shaking my head. No, no, no, I don’t wanna see that.

  “It was deprived of the nutrients it needed to survive. That’s why it looks dried out.” The doctor keeps framing the photograph in view no matter which way my head turns.

  My eyes burn each time they’re closed.

  “You must have known there was a problem,” he tells my sallow face and thinning hair, the flaky skin and empty nail beds. “Honestly, do you know how close you were to dying when we admitted you?” he asks, picture framed as close as ever but so blurry through the stinging wet.

  I’m replaying the timeline of symptoms, attempting to piece together what came from which, absently shaking my head because if you know the percentages like I do, the numbers don’t add up.

  “Fine then. We’ll move on.” The doctor swivels my head. He thinks I’m rejecting him and takes out a second photograph from his clipboard. “This is what we removed,” he says, again framing things within my view.

  From rice grain to shoestring, I can’t help but think, Oh, my, how you’ve grown.

  “Is this what you do when all else fails?” he speaks in rhetoric.

  I have not failed. I’ve just found another way that doesn’t work.

  “Do you know where this came from?” He motions to the photo, tracing its rippled body with a finger.

  “Mexico,” I whisper.

  “Dog feces, more specifically.” His following speech falls into that too-much-information category. The doctor tells me about underground dogfights and how just like a human, the closing requiem for these animals is the release of their bowels: a final golden egg. These poor animals bequeath one last product to be jarred and shipped overseas for profit by

  the cartels.

  “They make quite a bit of money with this sideline.” He frowns. “But you probably knew that, huh?”

  I shut my eyes.

  Smile and wave . . .

  . . . wave to the—

  “I mean, really—of all the th
ings you could do to lose weight, why a tapeworm?”

  Because it worked in the early 1900s and it still works now. And it took the one thing out of the equation that makes most diets fail: the person. Me, Miss Miranda Pritchard.

  The doc throws a pathetic grin, saying, “You don’t even want to know how we found you.”

  Ignorance is bliss, but he’s not really sparing me.

  When a former homecoming queen publicly passes out from mixing too many painkillers with alcohol, not to mention the obvious malnourishment and starvation—this is what the local press refers to as a big scoop.

  “You were covered in diarrhea and tapeworm larvae,” he practically gloats. Teaching me my lesson. Imparting those small-town values he holds so dear. “Birthing a bunch of parasites in a bar full of truckers and construction workers isn’t exactly what I’d call glamorous.”

  I’m looking at him like, Huh?

  “Yes, these things do reproduce if you let them sit long enough.” He pinches the corners of paperwork and photos as he thumbs through them.

  I see it again . . . the first picture: wax-colored mummy skin. The figure is surrounded by blood spatter and gelatin, reaching out with its tiny frail extremities. Sitting in the steel pan, it reminds me of dried-out seafood.

  “But my birth control . . . the pill,” I whisper.

  The doctor resumes his paperwork, checking monitor levels over my head on the machines.

  “It has almost a zero percent rate of failure,” I state.

  The doc looks up once more but with a condescending smile this time. He knows that percentages don’t mean much if you’re not factoring in all the variables. “And where do you think those pills were going?” He smirks at the stupid, blonde monster. “You or the parasite?”

  Silence is golden when there’s no right answer.

  The doc glances at the clipboard, flipping a couple pages. He views me for the first time without complete disdain. “Maybe it’s a dumb question to ask someone who’s clearly as misguided as yourself,” he says, sounding sorry for me, “but why were you carrying around all those placebos in your purse?”

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Nurse Heather Fowler is more of a bitch than I thought.