Starved - Anne McTiernan

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see you later!” Debbie called as she scampered off. She ran between two houses instead of going down our driveway. I watched as she went into a dark brown house.

      Sure enough, my mother didn’t let me out to play that day with Debbie, nor the next. There was too much work to do with unpacking and settling in. But Debbie was not deterred, and she and I played together most days after school. On nice days, we’d walk the neighborhood or sit on my lawn. If Mr. Johnson was outside, the two of us would hang around him, hoping for stories of his early life in the Midwest. On cold or stormy days, we’d play at either of our houses with our Barbie dolls.

      “Where are all the oranges I bought?” my mother asked one Saturday.

      “I ate some,” I said.

      “There were three there Thursday night. Did you eat three oranges yesterday?”

      “I gave some to Debbie.”

      “Jesus H. Christ, I don’t have enough money to feed the neighbor kids. Why did you give her food?”

      “We were playing here. She said she was hungry.”

      “If you’re going to have her over here, don’t give her any more food. I can’t afford it.”

      I didn’t know how I’d tell Debbie that she couldn’t eat at my house. Instead, I learned how to choose foods that my mother would not likely notice were missing. Like saltine crackers with peanut butter or cereal with milk. Anything that she’d be less likely to count. So I could still be a little hostess with my friend but avoid my mother’s ire. Debbie did think it a little odd when I said we couldn’t have any fruit because it was all for my mother. She said her mother was always trying to get her and her brother to eat more fruit.

      In late December, we stood at the kitchen table, admiring the Christmas cupcakes that Margie and I had just sprinkled with red and green sugar crystals. The kitchen was warm from the oven, which was emitting delightful smells of Toll House cookies. We were making enough Christmas goodies to feed a dozen people, but only the three of us would eat them.

      Through the door I could see our tree in the living room, blinking lights sparkling off the tinsel, faded antique glass ornaments mixed with newer ones from the five-and-dime store. Some wrapped presents lay underneath, but the ones for me were still hidden away because I couldn’t resist stealthily opening them before the big day.

      “Santa’s not real,” I announced.

      The two women’s head swiveled sharply to look at me. My mother had a broad grin on her face. Margie’s face was drained of color, and her hand shook as she lifted her cigarette to her lips.

      “Where did you hear that?” my mother asked.

      “Debbie told me.”

      “Well, what do you think?”

      “I know he’s make-believe.”

      “That’s ridiculous. Of course there’s a Santa,” Margie reassured me.

      “All the kids say he’s not real.”

      “How can you do this to me?” Margie asked. There were tears in her eyes.

      “Do what to you?”

      “How can you take Christmas away from me?”

      “Christ, Margie, no one is taking Christmas away from you,” my mother replied.

      “But she’s taking all the fun out of it now.”

      “It will still be fun, Margie,” I said. I wanted to touch her arm, to let her know everything would be okay.

      “I might as well return all the presents I bought for her,” Margie said to my mother.

      “No, don’t do that!” I sobbed.

      Margie grabbed her mug of black coffee and ashtray, cigarette dangling from her lips, and walked off to her room behind the kitchen. We could hear her crying through the walls.

      My mother sighed. She looked at me.

      “Jesus, she’s like a little kid sometimes.”

      “Will she really take back all my presents?”

      “I don’t know. I hope she doesn’t take mine back.”

      I wanted to erase everything I’d said. I couldn’t understand why Margie was so upset, but clearly it was because I said Santa wasn’t real. I didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to make her cry. And I certainly didn’t want her to take back all my presents. I knew from sneaking into her closet that she bought the presents that were labelled from Santa. If she returned all my presents, I’d have only the one present from my mother. That was how it always was. My mother’s gift to me was usually something like a bathrobe or sweater. It would be wrapped in Christmas paper with a tag that read, “To Anne. Love, Mom.” After ripping off the paper, I’d see the Filene’s or Jordan Marsh box logo and I’d know it would not be a toy or doll.

      From the perspective of years, I now know that Margie needed the magic of Christmas. In many ways, she remained the twelve-year-old girl who lost her mother to an untimely death from stomach cancer. Margie then lived alone with her belligerent, alcoholic father for six years until she could escape. She wanted a Santa, a loving father figure who never yelled, never belittled, never threatened. And she wanted me to remain a little girl so that I could keep the childlike spirit of Christmas alive in our home.

      My mother, on the other hand, was in a hurry for me to grow up. The older I became, the less work and responsibility she would have until finally I’d be of an age when I could take care of her. Plus there would be less immediate work: no filling stockings with Santa presents, no setting out cookies and milk, and no toys to lay under the tree. Although Margie did most of these duties, my mother didn’t particularly like the special attention I received as recipient of Santa-largesse. She preferred to have the most and best gifts under the Christmas tree.

      I wanted to please both of them, always thinking that if I was a good girl they wouldn’t send me away again. My dilemma was in choosing whether to grow up quickly, as my mother wanted, or stay childlike for my aunt. I chose the former. My mother had greater power over me and could decide on a whim to have me committed to an institution. I would become an adult in a little girl’s body.

      I discovered the piano that winter. I stayed late after school one day to help my teacher clean blackboards, aiming for teacher’s pet status. The sound of music drifted from the end of a darkened hallway. I tiptoed over the black and white tiled floor until I was a few feet from the source. A girl, another second grader, was playing an immense upright piano. This girl was very popular—all the girls wanted to hold her hand as we stood in one of the many lines going into and out of our classes. Maybe the kids would all love me too, I thought, if I could play piano. The girl’s brown penny loafers swung in the air beneath her, her green gabardine uniform shiny from many years of hand-me-down wear. She stopped playing and quickly looked around. Maybe I had made a noise of appreciation.

      “What are you doing?” She frowned.

      “Just listening,” I said. “It sounded nice.”

      She smiled quickly at this. “I take lessons every week with Sister Frances. She lets me use this piano. I have to practice every day.”

      It sounded wonderful to me. I wanted to be able to play piano, to make lovely sounds like this.

      “How much are the lessons?” Even at seven years of age, I knew that cost could be a major barrier.

      “A dollar a lesson.”

      I

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