Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [102]
“They say whatever causes the behaviour, it’s the behaviour itself that becomes the problem,” Ainsley had told her. “Of course there are still a few hitches. If the cause is deep-rooted enough, they simply switch their addiction, like from alcohol to dope; or they commit suicide. And what I need is not a cure but a prevention. Even if they can cure him – if he wants to be cured,” she said darkly, “he’ll still blame me for causing it in the first place.”
But Behaviourism, Marian thought, wouldn’t be much use in her case. How could it work on any condition so negative? If she were a glutton it would be different; but they couldn’t very well show her images of non-eating and then stop her breathing.
She had gone over in her mind the other people she might talk to. The office virgins would be intrigued and would want to hear all about it, but she didn’t think they would be able to give her any constructive advice. Besides, if she told one they’d all know and soon everyone they knew would know: you could never tell how it might get back to Peter. Her other friends were elsewhere, in other towns, other cities, other countries, and writing it in a letter would make it too final. The lady down below … that was the bottom of the barrel; she would be like the relatives, she would be dismayed without understanding. They would all think it in bad taste for Marian to have anything wrong with what they would call her natural functions.
She decided to go and see Clara. It was a faint hope – surely Clara wouldn’t be able to offer any concrete suggestions – but at least she would listen. Marian telephoned her to make certain she would be in, and left work early.
She found Clara in the playpen with her second-youngest child. The youngest was asleep in its carrier on the dining-room table, and Arthur was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, “Joe’s down at the university. I’ll get out in a minute and make the tea. Elaine doesn’t like the playpen,” she explained, “and I’m helping her get used to it.”
“I’ll make the tea,” Marian said; she thought of Clara as a perpetual invalid and connected her with meals carried on trays. “You stay where you are.”
It took her some time to find everything but at last she had the tray arranged, with tea and lemon and some digestive biscuits she had discovered in the laundry basket, and she carried it in and set it on the floor. She handed Clara her cup over the bars.
“Well,” said Clara when Marian had settled herself on the rug, so as to be on the same level, “how’s everything? I bet you’re busy these days, getting ready and all.”
Looking at her sitting in there with the baby chewing on the buttons of her blouse, Marian found herself being envious of Clara for the first time in three years. Whatever was going to happen to Clara had already happened: she had turned into what she was going to be. It wasn’t that she wanted to change places with Clara; she only wanted to know what she was becoming, what direction she was taking, so she could be prepared. It was waking up in the morning one day and finding she had already changed without being aware of it that she dreaded.
“Clara,” she said, “do you think I’m normal?” Clara had known her a long time; her opinion would be worth something.
Clara considered. “Yes, I would say you’re normal,” she said, removing a button from Elaine’s mouth. “I’d say you’re almost