Authors: H. A. Swain
“Unfortunately, we’re seeing more and more of this.” He leans on one elbow and taps the side of his head with his finely manicured index finger. Everything about him appears too well-kempt from his precisely trimmed steel-colored hair and close-cropped beard down to his pointy brown wing-tip shoes so polished they nearly gleam. There’s not a wrinkle on him. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck of stray lint to be found. It’s as if no variation from perfection will be tolerated by this man. He gives me the willies.
“Obviously I don’t have to tell you, Dr. Nguyen,” he continues, “that we know she’s receiving the proper amount of nutrition. More than anybody, you understand how Synthamil is calibrated, so I won’t waste your time convincing you that her feelings of hunger are not physical.”
I slump back in my seat and cross my arms. “Here we go.…” I mutter.
“Thalia!” Mom gives me the eyebrow. “Hear the doctor out. He’s an expert in this field.”
Dr. Demeter is not deterred by my skepticism. He leans forward and folds his hands on top of his desk then gives me a weak smile. “It’s a very honest and natural response to believe you need more nutrition when you feel this way. During the obesity epidemic in the early twenty-first century…”
“I didn’t say that I needed more nutrition,” I protest.
He sits back and fires off a round of questions. “Do you ever dream of food or imagine what it would be like to eat? Do you find yourself searching for an elusive scent or sensory experience, but no matter how hard you try, can’t pinpoint exactly what you’re looking for?” I feel color rising to my cheeks. “Have you used forno to try to quell the desire to consume?” I flush and squirm in my chair, willing my insides to stay quiet.
He plows ahead, not needing to wait for my answers. “There’s a pattern in these cases. It starts with a vague sense of malaise, an unnamed desire, a hollow, empty feeling that can’t be assuaged. The body may respond. In some people it can express itself as a sexual desire even when there’s no hormone surge initiation. In others, it mimics what humans used to experience as hunger. The stomach growls, energy levels dip, moods swing and yet, as we can see from the data, you are receiving enough nutrition. Which can lead us to only one conclusion.”
“Let me guess,” I say, my sarcasm barely contained. “It’s all in my mind?”
He lifts his hands as if to say,
Who knows?
My mom has little patience for this. “What’s your research show?”
He crosses his legs and taps the side of his head again. “As best as we can surmise, some people, especially those who might be at risk for obsessive-compulsive disorders, may not be able to handle the stress of not eating. Afterall, we are hardwired to eat. Because our inocs and daily Synthamil cocktail now regulate nearly everything, including the serotonin production in our brains, we rarely see the kinds of OCD behaviors that would have been present in the past. Ritualistic behaviors such as repeated hand washing or door locking or a heightened sexual response have largely been eradicated. But this question of not eating seems to be trickier than we thought. No disrespect, of course,” he quickly adds when my mom blanches.
“None taken,” she says, but I sense she’s miffed.
He hefts himself from his chair and walks toward the window behind his desk. “The problem is that eventually the thought cycles about food and eating become actions.” He turns, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked above our heads as he lectures. “The desire to fill the perceived emptiness becomes a physical imperative.” His pace quickens. “Patients begin to seek experiences that they believe will alleviate their overwhelming urges. They may turn to forno or engage in pica.”
“Pica?” Mom asks.
He props himself against the front edge of his desk, arms and ankles crossed, and levels his gaze at her. “Consuming nonfood items. Dirt, lint, fabric.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen patients eat all kinds of things.”
Mom makes a sick face.
“It’s very sad,” says Dr. Demeter. “And the worst untreated cases often end up in jail, because as we know, engaging in such activities can lead to illegal behavior.”
Before I can ask why eating dirt could possibly be illegal, Dr. Demeter spins around and heads to the window, booming, “But luckily we caught this early!” He turns and smiles. “I have no doubt that with some cognitive behavior therapy, perhaps an added dash of serotonin to Thalia’s Synthamil, and constant monitoring, we’ll get this under control in no time.”
“Do you think the mutation on her FTO gene has anything to do with it?” Mom asks.
“I doubt it.” He waves away her concern. “I’d say a month in our rehab facility, and she’ll be well on the road to total recovery.”
My stomach drops. “Rehab facility? A month?”
Dr. Demeter has settled himself in his chair again. “Yes, I run an inpatient treatment program.”
I shake my head. “No. No way. I am not going to be locked up for an entire month!”
“We find that having a controlled environment for several weeks facilitates the process,” says Dr. Demeter.
“Mom?” I catch her eye. My breath quickens and sweat prickles my armpits. “You can’t do that to me. I won’t let you.” I press my hands into the chair, wanting to push off and flee.
“Well, um, Thalia, if that’s…” Mom stutters.
“Dad would never go for it,” I say. “And Grandma Apple wouldn’t either. They won’t let you lock me away just because my stomach sometimes growls.”
“Thalia,” Dr. Demeter says in a calm, even voice. “The thing you need to understand is that this will get much worse. If we take care of it now, you will save yourself from lengthier, more intrusive therapies down the road. And I assure you both, my facility is state of the art with a very comfortable, homey feel. Our care is excellent. And seeing as you’re Dr. Nguyen’s daughter, I would personally oversee your case from start to finish.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Mom says, clearly flattered.
“I’ve been such a fan of your work for years,” Dr. Demeter goes on, buttering up my mother. “And not to be too presumptuous, but I believe you would find our research very interesting. You would be welcome to visit anytime and see the exciting discoveries we’re making.”
Mom leans forward eagerly as he talks. This is too much for me. I slam my hands on his desk and shout, “We’re talking about my life, not your research!”
Mom jumps. We stare at each other for a few seconds before she says, “Honey, we’re talking about both.”
Tears press hot against my eyes. The thought of being locked in a lab for a month is almost unbearable. I won’t be able to see Basil again or talk to Yaz or be with Grandma Apple. “You can’t do this to me.” I fumble for the knit holder Grandma made me and pull out my new Gizmo. “I’m calling Dad.”
“Put that down. You’re being ridiculous!” Mom says sternly. “And embarrassing. We’re trying to help you.”
Dr. Demeter folds his hands and presses his long index fingers against his top lip. “I can’t force anyone to come here. Unless there’s been an arrest and a court order.”
Mom huffs. “Well I can. She’s only seventeen so I have jurisdiction over her.”
My jaw drops.
“We have a higher success rate with willing participants,” he tells her.
Mom narrows her eyes and thinks for a moment. Then she turns to me. “So what’s it going to take, Thalia? What would make you willing to give this a try?”
I’m so surprised that my mother is seeking my opinion that at first I’m speechless. But then I squeak, “No drugs. I don’t want to end up like some brain-dead zombie.”
“We only make minor tweaks to your personal Synthamil cocktail designed to make you feel better, not worse,” says Dr. Demeter.
“And second,” I add, before my mom can butt in. “I don’t want to be locked up. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You shouldn’t think of it as being locked up.…” Dr. Demeter tells me.
“So I can come and go as I please?” I ask.
“Well no, but…”
“Then I’m not doing it.” I turn to my mom. “It’s like you want to get rid of me, the minute I’m not perfect Thalia anymore. Ship me off to a lab and let them fix me. If you’re such an expert, why don’t you take care of me?” A few tears escape and roll down my cheeks. I swat at them angrily.
“I’m trying to,” Mom says through gritted teeth.
We sit quietly for a moment at an impasse. I think of my alternatives. I could leave. Hide out for a while. Go stay with Yaz on the sly or live out of Flav-O-Rite—if I could find it again.
Mom stares at her hands in her lap and takes a long, deep breath as if she senses my determination. “Would you agree to come as an outpatient?” she asks me.
Dr. Demeter frowns. Deep lines from the sides of his nose to his chin appear, and he shakes his head.
“You said she needs a controlled environment, right?” she asks him.
“Well, yes, but…”
“What if I can provide that for her at home, but she comes here daily for treatment?” Mom offers.
I figure this is the best deal I’m going to get so before she can change her mind or he can talk her out of it, I say, “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Mom looks Dr. Demeter square in the eye. “I think that would be most beneficial to us all. If I can follow your research firsthand in my own home, I might find that it would parlay nicely with a future One World project I’m considering for funding.”
At this Dr. Demeter perks up. “Given your esteemed position, I suppose we could make an exception this one time.”
“Excellent,” Mom says, straightening her jacket.
“But,” Dr. Demeter adds, “only on the condition that if she’s not making enough progress after two weeks, we reconsider inpatient treatment.”
“That’s reasonable.” Mom gives him a tight smile. “We’ll start Monday morning then.” She stands and extends her hand.
Dr. Demeter pushes awkwardly out of his chair and reaches for her. “But Dr. Nguyen,” he says when they clasp hands. “I should warn you, this condition can change or progress quickly. You’ll need to be vigilant in your observations. If you notice anything out of the ordinary—say, personality shifts, mood swings, or erratic behavior—you must alert me right away.”
“Of course,” Mom says, withdrawing her hand. “We’ll see you Monday.”
* * *
During the ride home from Dr. Demeter’s office, Mom craps on and on about how much she’s sacrificing for me to have outpatient treatment. How her integrity is on the line. How I better take this seriously. When her Smaurto pulls into the driveway, I can’t take it anymore, so I slam out of the car and into the house, but she’s right on my heels, shouting, “You should be grateful!”
Dad and Grandma Apple look up startled from where they sit side by side on the couch.
I turn on my mother and clench my teeth. “You should want to take care of me, not hold it over my head.”
“Of course I want to take care of you.…”
“Could have fooled me!” I yell.
My dad looks from Mom to me and back to Mom. “Did I miss something here?”
“Dr. Demeter…” Mom starts to explain.
“She tried to lock me in his lab for a month!” I say. Grandma looks appropriately horrified.
Mom throws up her hands. “Stop being so dramatic!”
“You’re the one who’s dramatic. Acting like you’re some kind of martyr for making me one of your research projects. I’m not some petri dish of chromosomes in your lab!”
“I practically offered to make that man my protégé so he would take you as an outpatient!” Mom shouts. “Do you have any idea how coveted my help is for someone like him?”
I shake my head, fighting back tears of frustration. “I would hope,” I say quietly, “you’d believe in his work that much if you’re going to send me there.”
Mom looks stunned. Then she stutters, “Thalia, that’s not … you misunderstood … I do…”
But I’m not listening, because I stomp off to my room, fuming.
* * *
For the next hour, I lie on my bed with an empty feeling tugging at my belly while I search for any information about other people who feel the way I do. Astrid finds nothing. Like Basil and the Analogs, it’s as if they don’t exist online. Sometimes I feel like I must have conjured up the whole thing. It’s possible they could have an underground presence, I suppose, but since I haven’t been able to crack my OS on the new Gizmo, I can’t snoop around without giving myself away. I’ve never seen anything about this on the Dynasaur chats. I know they must be out there, though. Dr. Demeter claims to have a whole rehab facility dedicated to freaks like me. The only conclusion I can draw is that they’ve all been locked up or drugged up—a fate I’m going to do everything in my power to avoid.
The next time I glance at the clock it’s nearly five, and for the first time today, my life doesn’t seem so bad. Silently, I recite the info one more time: “Analogs, Friday, six p.m., 1601 South Halsted.”
In less than an hour, I will see Basil again! This thought fills me up and makes my stomach buzz with anticipation.
“Good, you’re back!” Grandma says when I come into the living room where she’s sitting in front of the main screen with my parents. “I thought we could all play Scrabble tonight.”
“I have plans,” I tell her and immediately feel bad.
“But, but, but…” Grandma sputters.
“It’s family night,” Dad says, finishing her sentence. “We’re all here finally. It was on the schedule.”
“I have my parents’ old board with real tiles,” says Grandma.
“Sorry.” I bend down to give her a quick hug. “You’ll have to do it without me this time.”
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“Just out,” I say.
“I don’t think so,” Mom says, but no one pays attention to her.
“Are you meeting up with friends?” Grandma asks, forcing a smile.
I nod, even though I know that’s not how they would categorize Basil.
“Well, okay then,” Grandma says, and this time she does smile at me, genuine and true.
“No,” says Mom. “It’s not okay. Dr. Demeter said…”
“I’m not his patient until Monday morning,” I remind her.
She starts to argue with me, but Dad squeezes her thigh and says, “It’s okay, honey. You should go.”
“Max!” Mom shouts. “You’re completely undermining me.”