"Marionetta, come on down here now"
As if. No way.
"Marionetta. come one down here now."
Not without good reason, and this doens't seem like one of them.
"Marionetta. Come down at once. There's a man here to see yuh."
A man. Not likely. Most men in this town have seen me, and none of them would come calling for me.
5 minutes go by. There are the cups clinking and the smell of coffee from down the stairs.
"Marion, dear, please."
She's dropped the 'etta' by now, which I think of as my real name. That bit you cut off at the end of a given name that suits more than the core, that's me. Too bad she don't know that, but that's my fault, because I don't tell. It's a problem.
"Girl, come on down. He's here to see YOU."
Like that a tasty bait, which it is not. People have been by to see ne before, but I have not come down for them, ever. Never. They were not invited by me to come into my home and so I will not go to them in my own place, ever.
"Marion, it's the preacher."
And so I must go. You do not resist the preacher. He has as many rules about behavior in public as I do. I respect that.
My feet plop on the stairs, flat as a pancake and twice as firm, as walk down steps familiar as old recipes. The hall smells like breakfast. I almost can't stand it and want to lick the walls. The smells are why I stay in my dammed room, or else what made those smells would be the very death of me. My grandma does not understand, so I stay away.
"Well, thank God you've arrived. Took you long enough."
Her head is gray. Wasn't the last time I seen her. Her feet seem smaller, all shook up in those house shoes. There's a man in the room too, skinny tie, greased hair, sharp creases to him. He's prettier than Grandma, and that just shouldn't be. He smells of lies, I can just tell. And he AIN'T no preacher. This tells me how bad it's going to be for me tonight.
"Marionetta, dear, your Mawmaw is worried for you."
As if you'd know, her name is GRANDMA, you idiot.
"She's concerned about your food."
Ought to be.
"She asked me out here to talk with you about what you eat."
Aaand, what's taken you so long? I heard that phone conversation 2 months ago. I could be dead by now.
"She and i have talked and it's clear you have a problem."
The fact I can't hardly walk down the stairs clue you in or what?
"In my opinion you need to get treatment for this issue."
Well, duh. The wallpaper knows that much.
"Do you have anything to say about this?"
"Yes."
"What is it? What are your questions?"
A beat, and I think. What are they? How did it get to this point, when strangers are called in to address my issues with food?
Another beat.
Breath.
"How much will I eat every day?"
"Five hundred caloires, to start."
"I don't think I can do that."
"And a change to your exercise program."
Oh God, not the exercise.
"Marion, you must do this. It will save your life. You can't go on as you are, and you have to konw this in you heart of hearts."
As if I have 2 hearts.
"Marion, the car is waiting outside. You have been committed by your MawMaw and must be a ward of the state for the next 30 days while you are in a treatment program. I promise you it will be OK, and that you are in good hands."
Of course I will be. There is no doubt. Right.
I shoot at look at Grandma, who is still fixing tea in the kitchen, then shift my shawl higher on my shoulders so the men outside can't see what I got on my chest, and resign myself to another month of people's judgment of who I am.
I ain't saying now if I'm fat or if I'm thin. That's the pity int this. Ive been both, and neither one seems to satisfy other people. EVER. It sure is a mystery, how we see things in other people we hate about ourselves. I'll never be normal, mostly because they won't ever think I am.
The door slams on the ambulance. Grandma stares at the back of the truck. She's smiling.
