Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [103]
Marian was reassured. That was what she herself would have said. But if she was so normal, why had this thing chosen to attack her?
“Something’s been happening to me lately,” she said. “I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Oh, what’s that? No, you little pig, that’s mummy’s.”
“I can’t eat certain things; I get this awful feeling.” She wondered whether Clara was paying as much attention as she ought to.
“I know what you mean,” said Clara, “I’ve always felt that way about liver.”
“But these are things I used to be able to eat. It isn’t that I don’t like the taste; it’s the whole …” It was difficult to explain.
“I expect it’s bridal nerves,” Clara said; “I threw up every morning for a week before my wedding. So did Joe,” she added. “You’ll get over it. Did you want to know anything about … sex?” she asked, with a delicacy Marian found ludicrous, coming from Clara.
“No, not really thanks,” she had said. Though she was sure Clara’s explanation wasn’t the right one she had felt better.
The record had begun to play from the middle again. She opened her eyes; from where she was lying she could see a green plastic aircraft carrier floating in the circle of light from Peter’s desk lamp. Peter had a new hobby, putting together model ships from model ship kits. He said he found it relaxing. She herself had helped with that one, reading the directions out loud and handing him the pieces.
She turned her head on the pillow and smiled at Peter. He smiled back at her, his eyes shining in the semi-darkness.
“Peter,” she said, “am I normal?”
He laughed and patted her on the rump. “I’d say from my limited experience that you’re marvellously normal, darling.” She sighed; she didn’t mean it that way.
“I could use another drink,” Peter said; it was his way of asking her to get him one. The ashtray was removed from her back. She turned over and sat up, pulling the top sheet off the bed and wrapping it around her. “And while you’re up, flip over the record, that’s a good girl.”
Marian turned the record, feeling naked in the open expanse of the living room in spite of the sheet and the venetian blinds; then she went into the kitchen and measured out Peter’s drink. She was hungry – she hadn’t had much for dinner – so she unboxed the cake she had bought that afternoon on the way back from Clara’s. The day before had been Valentine’s Day and Peter had sent her a dozen roses. She had felt guilty, thinking she ought to have given him something but not knowing what. The cake wasn’t a real gift, only a token. It was a heart with pink icing and probably stale, but it was the shape that mattered.
She got out two of Peter’s plates and two forks and two paper napkins, then she cut into the cake. She was surprised to find that it was pink in the inside too. She put a forkful into her mouth and chewed it slowly; it felt spongy and cellular against her tongue, like the bursting of thousands of tiny lungs. She shuddered and spat the cake out into her napkin and scraped her plate into the garbage; after that she wiped her mouth off with the edge of the sheet.
She walked into the bedroom, carrying Peter’s drink and the plate. “I’ve brought you some cake,” she said. It would be a test, not of Peter but of herself. If he couldn’t eat his either then she was normal.
“Aren’t you nice.” He took the plate and the glass from her and set them on the floor.
“Aren’t you going to eat it?” For a moment she was hopeful.
“Later,” he said, “later.” He was unwinding her from the sheet. “You’re a bit chilly, darling; come here and be warmed up.” His mouth tasted of scotch and cigarettes. He pulled her down on top of him, the sheet rustling whitely around them, his clean familiar soap-smell enfolding her; in her ears the light cocktail music went on and on.
Later, Marian was resting on her stomach with an ashtray balanced in the hollow of her back; this time her eyes were open. She was watching Peter eat. “I really worked up an appetite,” he had said, grinning at her. He didn’t seem to notice anything odd about the