He worried he might not be able to make it through the four miles of the very march he had masterminded. His body was pain-free in the pool—light, suspended, held. Walking, though, for any length was a whole different story. He had visions of collapsing on the road and getting carried off in a stretcher. That couldn’t happen. He would do this. He had to.
At the mirror, he ran his free hand through his hair. He had always loved his thick, shiny mass of curls, their silky feel and healthy, blossoming look. Regardless of the sagging, bloated, blue-veined, purple-marked block of body below, no one could ever deny his lustrous crop of curls. He powered on the electric shaver and hesitated, wavering, but then took the blade to himself. The razor’s buzz filled his ears, as if sounding a warning. It was only hair, though. Too much hair. As his curls fell away, he felt ever lighter. Felt surer of who he was becoming. He worked quickly, shearing down to his scalp, leaving only a shadow. Amazing how efficient and deadly the blade was, and yet how pleasant—a warm vibration along his head, a kind of caress.
Finished, he rubbed his coarse head with both hands, feeling its bumps and hollows, assessing its shorn, military look. He glanced down at the dark heap of curls around his bare feet. Tricia, his entire family, would be horrified. But he was a soldier now, waging a war. Another image flashed though him. He saw the village of seconds out in the garage, saw every last toy. The dolls and soldiers alike, they all raised their arms in unison and saluted him. He nodded at himself in the mirror, overcome. Let’s do this.
After a quick shower, he hurried back into his bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. His face and chins had definitely thinned out. He turned left and right, checking his profile. There was ever more give in the waistband of his trousers and tracksuit bottoms with each passing day, but he didn’t see as much change in his body as he’d like, aside from his arms. Oddly, his forearms showed the most difference. They appeared thinner, almost delicate, as if they belonged to someone else. He wrapped his right hand around his left wrist, liking how his thumb and middle finger almost met.
Fifty-seven pounds. He allowed the enormity of the loss to sink in. He was getting closer and closer to his goal. Just yesterday in the village, after he’d visited Michael’s grave, he’d met Caroline outside the church. “Well, if you aren’t meeting yourself backwards,” she had said, admiring. Soon he would have sixty pounds off, and sixty-five, and seventy, and on and on. He would never again allow his weight to climb. He would never again let food control him. He was in charge now.
He strapped on the knee and ankle braces he’d purchased, and then pulled on his tracksuit bottoms. Topless, he moved into the boys’ bedroom and struggled down onto all fours on the carpet. He reached beneath Michael’s bed for the hidden cardboard box. It looked like a gift waiting to be wrapped. The idea disturbed him and he grabbed at the box flaps, removing with reverence the five awful-thrilling T-shirts.
He returned to his wardrobe mirror and pulled his supersized T-shirt over his head. He’d used the same photograph of himself and Michael on the T-shirts as he had for the flyers. His right hand moved to Michael’s face on his chest. Above the photograph, a slogan in dark green ink read, Suicide Is Not the Answer! He moved his hand, allowing Michael to look out of the mirror. He studied Michael’s pixilated face in the glass, again searching for any hint of the horror that was to come.
He pushed aside the ache and checked his wristwatch. He needed to hurry. He wanted to be down at the church a good hour before the march’s official start time. The journalist from the local newspaper had promised he would arrive early, too, as had Sheila Russell from the Samaritans and the social worker Kathleen Davey. It was hard to gauge how many in all would show. Local support seemed strong, but making a difference was going to require a lot more than just his friends and neighbors. He was hopeful of hundreds from all over, maybe even upward of a thousand—enough to cause a stir that would echo throughout the nation. He straightened in the mirror, his pose as rigid and proud as a soldier’s.