The Journey Prize Stories 32 by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2020-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

FAWN PARKER

FEED MACHINE

I was impatient because my therapist, whose name was Melba, asked me to arrive at her home office at 11:45 and when I arrived at 11:44, she was around back throwing seed at two ducks floating in her above-ground pool. The ducks floated still like buoys and did not react to the seed. Melba shouted, “You know you want it,” and threw another handful at the ducks. The seed was tossed back at her by the wind.

I normally saw Melba on Thursdays, but this was a Saturday. She’d asked me to join her and another patient with a similar problem to mine on an excursion in lieu of my usual weekly appointment. The excursion was a trip to the science centre, where we would view an exhibit called The Living Body.

The other patient’s name was Nevaeh, like Heaven backward, and she was nine. Nevaeh was a patient of Melba’s, but she was also Melba’s granddaughter. Nevaeh’s mother had terminal brain cancer and was scheduled to die.

On the way to The Living Body exhibit Nevaeh and I sat in the back of Melba’s Jeep and didn’t look at each other. Melba let us take turns choosing songs on her MP3 player, which she transmitted through an FM adapter in her cigarette lighter receptacle. I chose “Season of the Witch” by Donovan and Nevaeh chose “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” also by Donovan, because I guess she didn’t know any of the artists in Melba’s music library. The songs came through very weakly and with a lot of static.

“Good choice,” I said to Nevaeh, and she said nothing.

Melba paid for Nevaeh’s ticket to The Living Body exhibit and I paid for my own. Nevaeh followed us around the circuit of displays with her hands cupped around her eyes like blinders so she would not see anything she did not want to see. She communicated to Melba by whispering and mostly ignored me. Nevaeh had a small black agenda she carried with her. In the agenda Melba made Nevaeh write a small letter B each time she binged and a small letter P each time she purged. Before we entered the exhibition room, Nevaeh opened her agenda and drew a small circle or perhaps a letter O or perhaps a numeral zero under that current day’s date. There was other, neater, writing in the agenda that said things like Chicken breast, Hotdog, and Gatorade. It was adult cursive, but not like Melba’s, which I knew from my tax receipts. I wondered if Nevaeh’s terminal mother kept track of Nevaeh’s food diary for her, and how all of that would go moving forward, and I felt depressed. I wondered what Nevaeh talked about in her sessions with Melba.

Once in a session, Melba asked me if I was uncomfortable with my sexuality and I said yes. She asked me what sorts of things made me uncomfortable, and I said, “Certain phrases,” and she said, “Like what?” and I hesitated and she said, “Go on,” and

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