Chapter 13

Lisa walked out of Tammy's house in a daze, her head cottony thick, her chest heavy. She hadn't grabbed a jacket when she'd fled her own house that morning, but she didn't feel cold. She was too numb to feel much of anything. Even the hunger inside of her, the hunger that defined her, had been reduced from a raging boil to a low simmer.

Those she'd held closest to her had all betrayed her trust, each and every one of them. This came on top of how for the past two days she'd been thrown into an insane situation, traveling across the world on the back of a black horse and commanded to deal in starvation—or possibly salvation, if the White Rider were to be believed. (And, admittedly, Lisa didn't believe him. If Pestilence was the philanthropist of the Horsemen, then Lisa was the cynic.)

It was just too much.

She walked past Midnight, who looked up from the chrysanthemums as she approached and then flared its nostrils as she went past. It whinnied at her, perhaps trying to snap her out of her funk. But she walked on, her feet on autopilot as she headed toward home. The steed snorted, cast a longing look at the flowers, and then followed its mistress, a black specter shadowing her like misery.

No one saw Lisa or the horse; people walked around them as if to avoid a cold spot, or suddenly crossed the street, or just angled themselves to go around them. Normal people don't perceive the otherworldly that hover in this world. It's a Darwinist safety switch in the mind, something to help keep humans from screaming at shadows. But deep in our souls, or our collective unconsciousness, we know those things we hesitate to define are there, walking among us. We know, even if we don't see.

Lisabeth Lewis walked on, and the steed of Famine followed.

Maybe the horse's presence influenced the shape of Lisa's thoughts. Even though she didn't want to think at all, let alone think about the crazy things that had happened, she found herself contemplating her role among the Horsemen. If she bore the Scales and played the part of Famine, she was going to bring chaos and pain to the world. And if she balked, Death was going to let War slaughter her. Of course, the Red Rider might do that anyway, depending on which way the wind blew.

And she thought she'd wanted to kill herself before. Lisa let out a short, bitter laugh. She was so screwed.

When she finally got home, all she wanted to do was go up to her bedroom and bury herself under her covers. Maybe she could pray once more that this was all some weird Lexapro-inspired dream. Mentally, she was tired of dwelling on food and Famine; she was completely wrung out emotionally. And physically, she wasn't much better: she was already exhausted just from the short walk from Tammy's house to her own, and far too thirsty—and so damn cold. A hot cup of tea (no sugar, no milk) would do wonders, she decided.

Standing on the front steps, she realized she didn't have her keys—or her purse. Of course she didn't; she'd dashed out of the house to escape James and Suzanne, and she hadn't thought to grab her jacket, let alone her shoulder bag. She'd been lucky that she was already wearing boots; otherwise she might have fled with only her thick socks covering her feet.

Midnight whinnied.

Lisa looked over her shoulder at the black horse. "I need a break."

The steed blinked its white eyes, as if in disbelief.

"I'll be out soon," she said, wishing it were a lie but feeling in her soul that it was God's own truth.

Midnight snorted, then trotted around the side of the house—probably to the garden, Lisa thought. The horse seemed to enjoy grazing. Maybe instead of pralines, she should get her steed a huge tossed salad.

Sighing, Lisa rang the doorbell. If her dad hadn't returned, she could always knock on their neighbor's door. She preferred to stay away from old Mrs. Rizzo, who was blue haired and had a tendency to want to stuff her visitors as if she were plumping them up for her oven. But Lisa would chance it if it meant getting the spare key. If only she were rebellious enough to keep her window unlocked and primed for sneaking out and in.

But the door swung open, cutting short her momentary desire for a life of juvenile delinquency. Lisa's words of thanks and greeting died in her throat.

In the doorway, her mother frowned at her. "No jacket, Lisabeth? You want to catch your death of cold?"

***

Lisa felt her mother's gaze riddling her back. She did her best to ignore it as she fixed her tea.

"That sweater is too big on you," her mother commented. Lisa bristled. This is what her mother did: she nitpicked. Nothing was ever good enough, let alone just right. She'd grown up with the constant backhanded compliment, "If you'd just lose ten pounds, you'd be so beautiful." Well, she'd lost the ten pounds (and then some), but now her mother's criticism tended toward Lisa's sallow skin or her limp hair or her clothing.

"I like the sweater," Lisa said, sounding defensive to her own ears.

"It makes you look like some castaway refugee." Lisa decided not to call her mother on mixing metaphors. Instead, she focused on dunking her tea bag into the mug of hot water.

"And those jeans. Really, Lisabeth. I realize that fashion today might lean toward the baggy, but those jeans are all but falling off you."

Lisa closed her eyes and tried to think of a happy place.

"I'd appreciate it if you acknowledged me when I speak to you."

Lisa swallowed her anger and dunked her tea bag. "Sorry."

She fished out the bag and dumped it in the garbage, then took her cup and tried to leave the kitchen.

"Sit with me," her mother commanded.

Damn it. Resigning herself to another lecture that pretended to be affectionate conversation, Lisa sank into one of the kitchen chairs. She must have pulled a muscle while riding on Midnight, because the act of sitting made her wince.

Sandy Lewis, however, didn't sit right away. She stood there, in her immaculate kitchen that gleamed with technological innovation and managed to sparkle with homespun charm: top-of-the-line appliances balanced with quaint pictures of apples in baskets going for five cents a pound; caches of cutting boards that folded into drawers; grass-green cushions meant to soften the harsh angles of expensive chairs more at home in magazine spreads than in an actual home. Lisa's mom was as much a prop as the stove she rarely used: hair sculpted into perfect form and glued into place; fully made-up face from foundation to lip liner; a smart skirt-suit adorned with tasteful buttons; the matching accessories that carried the eye from head to ear to throat to wrists to fingers to legs; the shoes polished bright enough to blind. Perfectly groomed, perfectly poised, she had a calculating gaze and a smile as rare as spring snow.

Lisa sipped her tea. She'd seen it all before. She just hadn't planned on seeing it right now.

"Well." Mrs. Lewis took a seat opposite her daughter. "I'll be on the road in a few hours, so we have some time to talk."

Terrific. Lisa tried to keep the annoyance off her face. "I thought you were home early."

"Change of schedule."

"Ah." As if that explained anything. Not that Lisa cared; she'd been all but invisible to her mother for years now.

"So," Mrs. Lewis said, "where were you coming from?"

She wanted to tell her mother it was none of her business, that she should stop pretending she gave a damn about Lisa. But she couldn't stomach saying any of that. Sullen, Lisa replied, "Am I in trouble?"

"Lisabeth, I just want to know where you were out and about." She sounded annoyed, as if Lisa's question had offended her. "Don't I deserve to know that much about you, at least?"

Of course. It was always what her mother deserved. Lisa sighed. "I was at Tammy's."

"Oh." Impossible for one word to hold any more scorn. "I wish you wouldn't spend so much time with that girl."

Lisa grimaced. Her mom had never liked Tammy, probably because once she'd heard Tammy go on and on about how amazing Lisa's dad was. What did it say about her mother, Lisa wondered as she took another sip of tea, that she was insecure over a seventeen-year-old girl thinking her husband was terrific?

"I don't think I'll be hanging out with her anymore," Lisa said, muttering into her cup.

Her words must have caught Mrs. Lewis off-guard: her mother blinked in surprise, mascaraed lashes fluttering against her face like caffeinated spiders. "Well. What happened?"

Hunched over her mug of tea, Lisa gazed up at her mom. "She's phony."

The words hung in the air, Lisa's accusation all too clear.

Mrs. Lewis cleared her throat. "How's James?"

Lisa's chest tightened. Her voice flat, she said, "We got into a fight."

"Well. That's no surprise. You seem to be fighting quite a bit lately." Her mother spoke with a clinical detachment, as if discussing the flight pattern of Canadian geese. Lately, the only times Lisa heard her mother get passionate was when she was rehearsing her speeches for her various charity events. The other times, Lisa assumed her mother practiced meaningful smiles in front of the mirror; she certainly didn't waste them on her child.

"Whatever." Lisa just didn't care—about anything.

"You kids," Mrs. Lewis said with a verbal eye roll. "You always think everything is so important. So much drama."

That sparked a feeling: annoyance. Of course her mother was dismissive; Lisa's life wasn't large-scale enough for her mother to actually care about. "It was a fight."

"A fight," her mother repeated, then clucked her tongue. "Honestly, even if it is a real fight, which it probably isn't, that doesn't make it a war to win, Lisabeth."

War.

"It's not about winning,," Mrs. Lewis continued. "It's about communication. About pulling yourself out of your own worldview and into someone else's perception. There are other people here besides you, you know."

"You've got no backbone to you," War says to Lisa, the knight's face hidden within the confines of her helmet. "Look at you: you're just a child. Practically a mouse."

Mrs. Lewis sniffed. "My goodness, Lisabeth. You don't have to look so stricken. No matter how badly your feelings got hurt, I'm sure you and James will kiss and make up. You always do."

Her mother prattled on, but Lisa had stopped listening. She was too busy thinking about the Red Rider on her warhorse, armor immaculate, the huge sword shining darkly, and her voice booming, promising to cut Lisa down.

And Lisa believed it.

Shivering, she took another sip of tea. No doubt about it: War was über-scary, and most likely insane. Probably all the battle lust, Lisa decided. That got her thinking about War as Death's handmaiden . . as well as other things to (and with) Death. And that made Lisa feel completely squicked out. Yuck.

It was another minute before she realized her mother wasn't speaking any longer. She glanced up from her tea to see Mrs. Lewis staring at her, almost squinting, her lipsticked mouth pulled down into a pensive frown.

God, she hated it when people looked at her as if she had a booger hanging from her nose. She snapped, "What?"

"You don't look good."

The Thin voice trilled, You'd look so much better if you just lost ten pounds.

Lisa gnashed her teeth, thinking, Shut up, shut up, shut up!

You're weak. A mouse, the Thin voice lamented. Vermin.

Her eyes closed, she imagined a field of rats, undulating and thick, their whiskers like sticks of grain.

"Lisa."

That pulled Lisa out of her feverish thoughts. Her mother never called her Lisa, not since she was a little girl. Once Lisa had developed breasts, her name had forever been Lisabeth to Sandy Lewis.

"You look sick," her mother said softly, as if she were actually concerned.

Lisa opened her eyes and regarded her mother. Her brow had—oh, shock and horror—wrinkled as her brows arched up. For that one moment, Sandy Lewis looked every year of her age.

"Your face is gaunt," Mrs. Lewis said, taking in her daughter's appearance. "Your eyes are sunken. You ... my God, Lisa. You look terrible."

Terrible, the Thin voice agreed. Huge and ugly and so fat. You're hopeless.

Her mother spoke again tentativly. "Are you dieting?"

Lisa shrugged. She hadn't thought of her relationship with food as anything as simple as a diet, not in a long, long time.

A diet, she could break.

A diet is temporary, the Thin voice said knowingly. Being thin is forever.

Exactly. Forever. Lisa wanted to sob.

There was another long moment as her mother measured her up. Then something hardened in Sandy Lewis's eyes, and her mouth set itself back into its prim and proper line. "Well. You need to stop it," her mother declared, sitting back as if that were the end of it. "Clearly, you're not getting the nutrition you need. You should know better."

Lisa's heart galloped in her chest; her blood pounded in her ears. "What are you saying?"

"You're too thin, Lisabeth."

Oh my God.

Black was white. Heaven was hell. Her mother couldn't seriously have said she was too thin.

Lying, the Thin voice insisted, she's lying she's just jealous like Tammy like Suzanne like all of them jealous that you have control over your body and they don't they don't they can only dream of doing what you do—

"So whatever crazy diet you're on," her mother scolded, "you just stop it."

Lisa wanted to scream. Just stop it, her mother said, as if it were that easy. Lisa's hands shook, and tea lapped over the rim of her mug.

Her mother sniffed. "Or is it pills? I know a lot of girls like to take pills to curb their appetites."

"No pills," Lisa gritted. Not including the stolen Lexapro.

You couldn't even kill yourself, the Thin voice said, mocking and cold. You're pathetic.

"Is it the tea?" Her mother motioned to Lisa's cup. Bracelets clacked on her wrist. "You've been drinking tons of tea. Is it one of those herbal remedy things? Those are all a crock, you know. They just dehydrate you, and then you'll gain it all back when you drink water—"

"It's not the tea!" Lisa hefted her cup and hurled it at the floor. The mug shattered, spraying liquid and porcelain on the linoleum, splashing Lisa's pants. She shrieked, "It's not the fucking tea!"

Shocked in equal parts by her daughter's profanity as by her violence, Sandy Lewis clasped a hand to her breast and stammered, "Lisa! What's wrong with you?"

Everything. The Thin voice sighed. Everything's wrong. You're a failure. You're fat. You're nothing.

Lisa fisted her hands in her hair and pressed them against her head, screaming, trying to drown out the Thin voice. Stop it! she cried out, but her mouth wouldn't work. Just stop it!

She didn't feel it when she tore out hunks of her hair.

"Lisa!" Mrs. Lewis reached over to put a well-manicured hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Please, you're hurting yourself !"

Hurting? Oh, she had no idea what it felt like to be hurting.

But Lisa would show her.

Shadows ate her eyes and feasted on her soul as Lisabeth Lewis gave way to Famine. The Black Rider clamped a hand on to the woman's wrist—a woman who thought she could touch Famine and not be touched in return.

And Famine slowly sucked out Sandy Lewis's life.

Muscles atrophied and body fat melted away, leaving her skin loose and ill fitting over her frame. Her skin broke out into patches of dryness, then became peppered with red rashes. Sickness bloomed inside of her in black flowers of scurvy, of anemia, of beriberi and pellagra. As her body ate itself, her heart and lungs slowly shrank. Her bones became more and more prominent until they were clearly visible under her suit of flesh. Her stomach bloated as fluids collected within, desperately trying to keep her body functioning. Hollowed out from hunger, her eyes sank into their sockets, and her face transformed into a skeletal mask.

She opened her mouth to cry out in agony, but she was too weak to make any sound stronger than a wheeze. Dying, she held on to Famine's shoulder and croaked out her daughter's name.

Through the black haze of Famine, Lisa blinked. She saw her mother's desiccated form, and she whispered, "Mommy?"

Her mother's yellowed eyes rolled up. Shaking with palsy, she collapsed back into her chair.

"Mommy! Oh God oh God oh God..."

Lisa, sickened and horrified by what she'd done, clutched her mother's bony hand. She had to make it right. She had to fix it. Had to...

Her mother's energy swam inside of her, sang within her. Filled her almost to the bursting point. She had to get it out, had to...

She had to give it back.

Biting her lip, Lisa closed her eyes and reached inside herself. Her imaginary fingers dug deep, scrabbling to find the life she'd stolen, desperate for purchase. She gagged; she coughed. But she wouldn't let go—not of her mother's hand, not of her own power.

Give it back!!!

With a body-shaking heave, her power spewed out. It splashed against her mother, coating her face and hair, dripping down her throat. It sank into her, and Sandy Lewis absorbed it like a sponge, her body filling out, her organs rebuilding, her muscles reclaiming their shape. Disease burned away; her skin firmed up and smoothed out. Her face softened. And her eyes brimmed with tears.

Lisa smiled weakly, then sank back into her seat, shivering. She was ice all over, from her face to her toes. She was so horrifically hungry that the thought of food nauseated her. But she'd done it. She'd finally forced herself to purge.

Tammy would be proud, she thought, and then she let out a laugh that sounded like a whimper.

"Lisa," her mother said—her normal, healthy, self-centered superficial mother who didn't give a damn about her and who was too busy speaking out for causes to bother speaking to her daughter—and took Lisa's hand gently, as if worried it would break. "There's something wrong with you."

Lisa was too exhausted to nod her agreement.

"You're sick," her mother said.

Yes, she was. But Lisa also was hopeful. Not for herself, no; she was a lost cause, and had been for far too long. But maybe she could help make things better.

"Bed," she whispered, trying to pull herself to her feet. Things went gray for a moment, and then her mother was right there, propping her up, letting Lisa lean heavily on her.

Under her brittle, perfect shell, her mother was surprisingly soft.

Sandy Lewis helped her daughter up the stairs, even stripped the boots off her feet. Lisa was already fast asleep when her mother tucked her into bed, and so she didn't feel the gentle kiss on her forehead, nor the careful smudging of a finger over her brow, trying to remove the lipstick print.