The Weight of Him(59)

Denis circulated a clipboard with contact sheets along the rows. Billy asked surviving family and friends to please sign up to take part in his documentary on the devastation of suicide, a film he hoped would air nationally and, ideally, internationally. He also passed around the pledge sheets, asking people to dig deep and sponsor his weight loss. “Go big,” he said. “Not like I did, but with your money.” More laughter.

He invited Sheila from the Samaritans and Kathleen from Social Welfare to the stage. They moved toward him, both looking apprehensive. Before turning the podium over to them, he again thanked everyone for coming out to march. To think he had imagined thousands. Christ. He tried to gather himself, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t get the numbers I’d hoped”—he could no longer control the shake in his voice—“but I got each one of you, and together we’re going to make a difference.” More applause.

He welcomed Kathleen to the podium. She stepped toward him, her expression growing ever more uneasy. “I think I’ll just…” Her voice trailed away and she moved off the stage. She stood at the top of the room to address the crowd, not needing to raise her voice to get heard among so few. Billy felt ever more foolish, having used the stage and microphone himself. As Kathleen spoke, listing the warning signs of suicide, Billy held on to the sides of the podium, his attention fixed on the hall doors, as if his family, the hordes, might still come.





Nineteen

Billy again phoned in sick to work—his third sick day, now. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about much of anything. The march had been nothing like he’d hoped. To his surprise, Tricia didn’t rage. Maybe she felt guilty about abandoning him. And so she should.

Anna visited him on Michael’s bed. “Are you okay, Dad? Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” he said. She didn’t look convinced.

Later, Ivor also appeared. “When are we going swimming again?”

“Soon, I promise.” Billy knew he was disappointing the boy, but he hadn’t the energy to do or say any more.

Tricia didn’t go near him. He tried not to care.

Hunger, and a full bladder, forced him out of bed. He weighed himself. Three hundred and forty-seven pounds. He’d gained three pounds. He wanted to punch the bathroom wall. He didn’t understand. He might not have exercised since the march, but he’d consumed nothing more than the performance shakes. Surely he should have lost weight? Why was everything going against him? Why couldn’t the world let him win, just once?

His stomach dragged him downstairs. He realized he was alone in the house. Ever since Michael, he didn’t like to be alone in the house. It was a whole new kind of empty.

He opened the fridge. It seemed to pull him inside. He saw himself crawling into the appliance and closing the door. All hands and teeth, he would clear every shelf, stuff everything inside him. He was shaking. Give it up, he thought. Stop struggling. Stop fighting. He knew how to make the pain, the misery, go away. How to get soothed and sated. Food had never failed him.

He eyed the wrapped meats, cheese, bread, fizzy drinks, and leftover pasta. He pulled open the bottom tray and spotted the bars of chocolate hidden at the back. The shaky feeling worsened. His stomach growled. If he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He rushed the door closed and pressed his back to it.

It felt like his heart was banging on the appliance. His panic and agitation climbed. His heartbeat pulsed in his palms. A sharp pain squeezed his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His right arm weakened. Numbed. He was having a heart attack. He was going to drop dead. Another sharp pain cut across his chest.

*

Dr. Shaw removed the stethoscope’s earpieces. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

Billy exhaled, sharp, dismissive. He wasn’t sure he’d any fight left.

“A panic attack,” Shaw continued, echoing the 999 emergency operator. Billy was almost disappointed. If his heart was giving out, he could stay in bed for as long as he liked, and to hell with the factory and everything else.

“You’ve lost weight,” Shaw said.

Billy nodded, not wanting to go there. He could see himself putting back on all his weight, and then some. He’d have gone off the deep end already, if it weren’t for Denis.

“How much?” Shaw asked.

Billy shrugged, needled by the three pounds he’d regained. “Over fifty pounds.”

“How have you been losing it?” Shaw asked.

Billy wouldn’t meet the doctor’s beady eyes. “Exercise, dieting. The usual.”

“Over fifty pounds, in…” He checked his chart. “In less than five months. That’s significant. You really should have come back to see me before now. It’s important to do this under medical supervision. If you go too hard and too fast, you could very well give yourself a heart attack.”

Billy pretended to listen. Now that he knew he was all right, at least physically, he wanted to just get a sick cert to keep the factory off his back, and to get out of there as fast as possible.

Shaw’s voice turned graver. “Your mother was in with me, too, Billy. She told me about your fund-raising efforts, said the stress was getting to everyone. It’s really taken its toll on her, and clearly on you, too. I think it’s best to slow down. Take a step back from everything for a while.”