Free Empty Arms: A Novel by Erika Liodice Page B

leaving purple impressions on my hips. Desperate for relief, I stole a pair from Mom’s dresser and washed them in my bathroom sink every night, so she wouldn’t notice them in the laundry.
    Then it was the zipper on my school uniform, which whined to a stop halfway up its track, refusing to advance the last couple of inches to the top. I sucked in my stomach and held my breath; I tugged and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. Finally, I gave up, pinned my skirt closed and covered my growing belly with bulky sweaters.
    The only nice surprise came one morning in late November, when I noticed that my peach-sized boobs had grown to the size of melons. Granted, they were small melons, honeydews not watermelons, but melons all the same. For once my chest looked as voluptuous as Angela’s. Of course, any appeal that had was offset by my body’s inability to properly digest food. Somewhere along the line my stomach had started pumping out acid by the cubic ton, which ignited angry flames that scorched my heart all day and all night.
    By Thanksgiving my hunger was insatiable. My stomach grumbled so loudly in the middle of Mom’s grace, it made her lose her place and she had to start over. But no one said anything about my weight, so I stupidly believed they hadn’t noticed and kept on eating.
    “Daddy, could you please pass the sweet potatoes?” I asked when he finished carving the turkey. Two scoops of the sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping looked small on my dish, so I took a third. Daddy dropped two slabs of turkey onto my plate and I drowned them in a pool of brown gravy. When Mom passed the stuffing, I piled my plate high. And when she passed me the basket of dinner rolls, I took three. My plate was so full you couldn’t even see a speck of the white china below.
    I was so busy shoveling the food into my mouth that I didn’t notice Mom set down her silverware and gape at me. She cleared her throat, which finally got my attention.
    “What?” I asked with my mouth full.
    Daddy, who was sitting at the other end of the table, gripped his fork and knife and shot her a pleading look.
    “Young lady, don’t you think that’s a ghastly amount of food to eat in one sitting?” Her words were as sharp as the carving knife.
    I shrugged and continued chewing. “I’m hungry.”
    She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “I’ve noticed.” She cut into the slab of turkey on her plate.
    “What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I asked, foolishly taking the bait.
    With fork and knife in hand, she rested the base of her palms on the lace tablecloth and leaned in the tiniest bit. “It’s just … we’ve noticed that you’ve been putting on some weight.”
    I turned to Daddy, but he kept his eyes fixed on his plate.
    “Are you saying I’m fat?”
    Her lips tightened, causing rage to swell in my stomach. Even though I knew there was truth to her words, the anger shot through my veins like battery acid. “Enjoy your dinner.” I jumped up from the table and stormed upstairs.
    “It’s not very becoming on your slender frame,” she called after me.
    I gripped my bedroom door, wanting nothing more than to slam it so hard the whole house would shake, but the last time I did that Mom took it off its hinges and I needed my door to remain on its hinges. So I shut it quietly and punched a pillow instead.
    I continued suffering silently, waiting for James to find the decency to write to me, but eventually the shards of my broken heart turned cold, and the love I’d been carrying dissolved into pure hatred.
    For decades it never made sense, but now it does.
     
December 25, 1972
     
     
Dear James,
     
     
I hope your Christmas is better than mine. My mom walked in while I was trying on some new clothes. She took one look at my stomach and she knew right away. She and Daddy are downstairs yelling and I’m hiding in my bedroom. I know I’m in big trouble and I’m scared. I have no idea what’s going to happen now. I wish I had