Scotch Mist
written by: Corinne Beinke
“Our relationship to food is very often a reflection of our relationship to God,” Gillian Weeks floats above the group of women sitting on cushions in the town hall.
“That is to say,” she pauses. “Our relationship to our own hearts.” I look at the women sitting on either side of me, both clutching their chests and nodding in teary agreement.
“And it’s in childhood that this blueprint for how we treat our bodies is first formed,” Gillian stops again, expertly stretching us to uncomfortable places.
“How we are fed as infants and children will determine whether we walk through life feeling loved or abandoned. Satisfied or disappointed. Empty or Full.” Loud sobs begin to the right of me. A comforting pat on the shoulder and her cries turn to quiet whimpers. I can’t help but wonder if she’d been hoping for that little bit of contact. As if by being touched she’d somehow be healed.
“Now, find a comfortable seat and close your eyes.” Gillian’s voice takes on the fairy-like tone that signals we are about to start another meditation. I shuffle back on my cushion until I can extend my legs out straight and rest my back against the wall. If I am going to have to sit through another chakra polishing party, I am going to be comfortable.
“And exhale through your mouth,” I place my hands on my lap and force out a long, unsteady breath.
“Now, I want you to take yourself back in your mind’s eye to a memory. Your first memory of eating dinner with your family as a child.” I clear my throat and unstick the fabric from beneath my breasts.
“Cast your mind back to that dinner table. How old are you? Who else is there?” I press my head into the wall and force my eyes to stay shut.
“What was the atmosphere like? What was the energy in the room?”
It’s so hot. Why does that woman have to sit so close? I can feel her breath on my skin, her sweat on my tongue. My lower back aches. I’ve got pain behind my right eye again. Inhale. Exhale. I let myself go. Let myself be. Until the image comes forward and I am there.
“Was it a joyful occasion? Was there any tension?”
I’m swinging my legs back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat, a gentle rock. Back and forth, back and forth. We wait in silence for her to take her place at the head of the table.
“What were you eating?”
Scotch mist, barely enough to sustain a rabbit. A few green beans, a couple of carrots, and a small piece of chicken breast. No sauce. She sits and flicks her napkin onto her lap. A single raised eyebrow at me and I know I’m to do the same. The silence is finally broken by the crunch of French bread being divided into 3 equal portions. We’re a family of four. I look up at my mum with doleful eyes, as she breaks the soft dough away from the crust, rolling it between her fingers before dropping it delicately onto her tongue.
“Don’t give me that look, Molly. I’ve been to aerobics and my swimming group today. I’m allowed it. What have you done huh? You’ve been sitting around all day on that flabby arse no doubt?” She pinches another ball of fluffy white dough between her fingers. Squeezing it, pressing it, molding it into the exact shape she wants.
“Give her a piece of bread love? She’s a growing girl,” Dad looks at my plate but avoids my eyes.
“Yes, she is. And I’m just ensuring she grows in the right direction,” she glares at him, and my father’s eyes return to his plate. His plate, overflowing with creamy potatoes and a crispy gratin topping. He won’t try again.
Michael slurps his water, and I watch tiny morsels of food fall back into the glass. He sees my stare and continues to chew with exaggerated attention. I take my cutlery in my hands and pin the neck of the bean between my fork. Perfectly al dente.
“Elbows,” my mother hisses. I lift them higher and slice through the skin with one clean stroke.
“What were you eating? Was there enough? Did you have to finish everything on your plate?” Gillian asks as she moves around the room. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
I’m not and I can feel my chest getting tighter, my shoulders stiff and high.
“Inhale and exhale,” she sings out by my side. “Let your senses come alive with curiosity.”
It’s so dry. I can’t swallow it. So I just keep chewing and chewing, moving it around my mouth with my tongue. I gag as I try to swallow again. I need water. I look up to find Michael watching me. A spot of creamy sauce sits on his cratered chin, like a whitehead ripe for popping.
“She’s doing it again,” he says with a smirk. My mother whips around.
“For goodness sake not this again. Swallow the damn chicken, Molly.” I chew faster now, willing some saliva to return to the desert lands. I try to tear the meat with my teeth, but it just keeps shredding into more sinewy strands that won’t break down. I swing my legs back and forth, back and forth, mimicking the rhythm of my mouth. It’s aching now, desperate for a break, to feel the emptiness again.
“Swallow it, Molly,” my brother mocks. I push the mass to the back of my mouth but I can’t seem to remember what comes next. How to make it go down. What to do with my tongue. Michael’s mouth shines with grease as he gulps down the last of his water with a satisfying smack of his lips. I stare right back as I force the food to the back of my throat where it finally moves down. But it’s too slow and it’s taking the last of the moisture from my mouth. And then it just stops. I start to cough but it doesn’t budge. I cough again, eyes wide as I realize how it’s taken hold. Gripping on. I reach my hand to my throat. Why is it so hot in here? I throw my fist onto the table as I try to take another breath, panic rising. It won’t move. It won’t go down. My body’s refusing, repulsed, rebelling. Another hacking sound emerges from my mouth but nobody moves. Nobody moves. The anger rises and I cough again. The wet mass flies from my lips and lands with a splat on my mother’s starched white tablecloth but still, nobody moves. Only Michael stares at the sodden grey mess between our plates. I gather it up quickly with my napkin and dab at the spittle around my lips.
“May I please have some water?” My voice comes out fragile and broken. She doesn’t respond and nobody else moves to get me a glass. My father moves his hand and my eyes widen with hope. But his fingers only form a loose fist before wielding the knife by his plate.
“May I please have some water?” The words rise from a place made of stone and fire but when the glass appears I just watch the condensation drip onto the tablecloth. I watch as it spreads like a virus, turning the perfect white linen into a sickly grey.
“I see you finished the water I left out for you today. Perhaps tomorrow you should leave some for dinner, seeing as you find the simple act of swallowing such a challenge. Honestly, Molly, it’s like living with a toddler. How old are you now, 9, 10?” I sip the water and hold it in my mouth for just a moment. She wipes the last piece of her chicken through a puddle of sauce on her plate. Her lips, slick with spit, part and I swallow and imagine. “I’m 7,” I reply, eyes down on my plate.
“Not a toddler then,” she says and looks away.
Back and forth, back and forth. I hear them all refill their plates, but I keep my focus on my carrots and beans. Slicing through each one until 6 beans become 18 and 4 carrots become 8.
“What food was called a treat?” Gillian’s fairy voice pulls me back and I feel my shoulders soften.
“What were you rewarded for?” I place my hand on the hollow space below my ribs and it groans in response to my touch.
“Finishing all the food on your plate?” Her question leads me back to the room. It’s dark now and I’m alone. We’re at a stand-off, the chicken and I. But I’m not afraid. We’ve been here before and this time I’m holding the winning draw. A lick of white sauce on my father’s plate. A crust of yellow skin, just forming on the surface. My last piece of chicken breaks through with ease and I hurl it into my mouth before it drips onto my plate. I chew open-mouthed and smile at the sorcery of my winning blow. She will never know.
“Notice you sit bones on the cushion. The temperature on your skin.” Gillian’s bringing me back but I don’t want to leave her all alone. Not again.
“And when you’re ready, open your eyes.” I squeeze them shut and keep her there. I watch as she grasps the flesh on her thighs. The way she pulls her hair from her face as she looks to the door. The relief that waits. The sense of accomplishment and power. My hand moves to my chest where the weight of her need threatens to explode all over the polished wooden floor.
“Now might be a good moment to journal your thoughts and feelings about this exercise.” I open my eyes and look down at the empty page by my side. The others scribble and I share a smile with the woman on my right. Then I tie back my hair, smooth down my clothes and walk towards the open doorway at the other end of the room. I’m so hungry it hurts.
- Scotch Mist - November 5, 2024
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