I met Nathan a few days after I moved into the building. As I rushed out of the elevator, furiously typing an email, the pointed toe of my shoe connected with something soft. I crashed to the floor, my Blackberry and the contents of my purse scattering around me. I started to stand, felt lightheaded, and sat back down facing the elevator bank.
A boy was sprawled across the carpet in front of me. He stared at me, pale blue eyes unfocused. "Please," he moaned, "I'm starving." He was plump and well-dressed, but he spoke with such ravenous despair that I believed him. A woman emerged from the apartment opposite mine as I finished gathering my things, and she called Nathan's name. He sprang to his feet, stuffing something into his jeans and licking at a brown stain around his mouth. My new neighbor gave me a knowing smile, shook her head, and plucked a wrapper from his back pocket. It was from the LARABAR I'd never gotten around to eating for lunch that day. He'd snatched it off the floor and devoured it.
Nina Bishop introduced herself, glanced at the dress slacks that hung loosely from my belt, and insisted I come over for supper. "He does that sometimes," she explained when we were alone. Nathan had inhaled a large serving of spaghetti and left the table after cleaning the plate with his tongue. "Puts on a show and begs for snacks. It worked at first, but the neighbors know better now." Nathan, she said, was diagnosed with Prader-Willi syndrome as a baby. The primary symptom was an insatiable appetite. Left to his own devices, he would never stop eating.
His entire life, Nina told me, Nathan's hunger had driven him to extremes. The cabinets and refrigerator had been locked since Nathan was 5, when Nina woke one morning to discover he'd devoured a week's worth of groceries overnight. She didn't throw spoiled food in the trash can, because Nathan would find and eat it. When they visited Nathan's grandparents, grandma's cat gifted the family a dead mouse that Nina intercepted as Nathan raised it to his lips. He threw tantrums in public and accused his mother of starving him. He even called 911. After an investigation cleared Nina, a police officer came over to explain that feeling hungry wasn't an emergency. Nathan disagreed, of course, but understood that calling again would be fruitless. She kept copies of his medical records at home, in case she had to explain.
Nathan's father had died in a car accident shortly after he was born, so his mother raised him alone. After that night, I would stop by occasionally to visit, and she was always delighted to see me. She did freelance work from home and rarely had grown-up company. Nina was everything I wasn't: warm and nurturing and endlessly patient. I guessed that she was about 30, only a few years older than me. Despite our rocky beginning and my refusal to sneak him food behind his mother's back, Nathan warmed up to me as well. I'd never been great with kids and was working eighty hour weeks, but I invited him over sometimes so Nina could have a break. To my surprise, we bonded over old episodes of The Simpsons on DVD and a battered Super Nintendo console unearthed from storage. I guess neither of us had many friends. I missed more meals than I remembered to eat and rarely stocked my kitchen, so it was easy to keep him from gorging himself at my place. He did get into some coffee grounds once, and I felt awful. Nina assured me he'd eaten worse. We had a comfortable routine. Once a week, I'd pack up early and be home by 7 so Nathan could come over after he had dinner. We'd hang out until his bedtime, then I'd work a little more and crash.
Shortly before he turned nine, I signed up for a two week humanitarian trip to Ethiopia that my employer sponsored. It was a selfish decision. I was burned out from replacing sleep and meals with cigarettes and Adderall. I wanted to see daylight without looking through an office window. Vacations were frowned upon by management, but volunteering was encouraged, so I leapt at the chance. At his birthday party, I gave Nathan a Nintendo Wii and all the Mario games I could find for it. Excessive maybe, but he loved that damned Super Nintendo so much, and I was earning more money than I knew how to use. He grabbed the largest piece of cake and stunned us all by insisting it was for me. I was too shocked to say no.
The following Sunday, he came over and I told him about my trip. He pouted, but the mention of souvenirs cheered him up. He announced that since I was going to Africa, we had to watch The Lion King, even though it meant staying up past his bedtime. I told him we needed to ask his mom, but Nathan was already on his way to grab the DVD from his bedroom. I followed him into his apartment, but the bathroom door was closed and the shower running, so I decided not to disturb Nina. She usually wanted him home by nine, but since I was leaving the following night, I figured she'd cut us some slack. I relented on the movie and even made him popcorn, but I stood my ground on the matter of extra butter and escorted him back to his front door as soon as the credits rolled. Nathan came back the next day while I scrambled to finish packing. I told him I had time for one episode of The Simpsons before I had to go to the airport, and he asked if I had any snacks. I said no, and his face fell. "But I'm starving!" he complained, "Mom is punishing me for staying out late. I haven't eaten all day." I had expected him to push me after I bent the rules the night before, so I didn't budge. Sob stories and tall tales were nothing new. As soon as the show ended, I hurried Nathan across the hall and headed for the elevator. He sniffled and waved to me as I pressed the ground floor button.
Fourteen days later, sweaty and exhausted, I rode the same elevator back to the 12th floor. It was only 7pm, and I decided to pay Nina and Nathan a quick visit before crashing for the night. As I raised my arm to knock, a faint but unpleasant odor collided with my nose, reminding me how badly I must stink after the long, hot journey home. I went back to my own apartment for a much-needed shower, then slept for 14 hours straight. In the morning, excited to see Nina and Nathan, I decided the office could wait a few hours. I knocked on their door, waited, and knocked a few more times. I pressed my ear to the door and heard nothing, then noticed a sheet of paper protruding slightly from under the door. It was a note from one of our neighbors.
Hey, Nina. Guess you're not home. Saw Nathan in the hall today and he said he hadn't eaten for two days. He's probably just up to his usual tricks, but he seemed different. Is everything OK?
I dropped the letter and dialed Nina's cell phone, which rang on the other side of the door until it went to voicemail. My chest tightened uncomfortably as I dug Nina's spare key out of my purse and opened the door. Crossing the threshold, I choked on foul air. There were dents and scratches on the cabinet doors in the kitchen, and they were smudged with something dark and rusty. I saw a blinking light across the room. Nina's phone was charging on an accent table just outside the bathroom, next to the half-opened door.
Nathan, thinner and paler than when he waved goodbye, laid motionless on the tile inside. I knelt beside him and placed two fingers against his neck. I felt nothing. There was blood crusted on his lips and chin. An opaque shower liner, stained with coppery fingerprints, had been drawn across the tub. I remembered the day I met Nathan, when he got my chocolate energy bar all over his face then tried to hide the wrapper. I knew then what had happened behind the curtain, but for reasons I don't want to understand, I looked. The coroner speculated that Nina died from a stroke while Nathan and I watched The Lion King, but officially her cause of death is unknown. The autopsy was inconclusive. There wasn't enough of her left to be sure. Nathan's estimated time of death was Monday night, between 7:00PM and 9:00PM. When I stood outside their door and decided not to knock, he might still have been breathing. What I saw on the floor of shower was gruesome, but this thought was infinitely worse.
While I waited for the police, I forced myself to inventory what I'd taken for granted. Every homemade meal I'd picked at, every lunch I'd skipped, every dinner invitation I'd declined. The birthday cake I hadn't wanted to eat. I told the police Nathan's story, and then I went grocery shopping. I passed by the coffee and the Slim Fast shakes and the sugar-free gum and bought food instead. I walked home in the sunshine and cooked myself a proper meal. I ate, slowly and deliberately, until I felt full. Because I could.
Wherever he is now, I hope Nathan can, too.
Submitted January 22, 2016 at 09:09AM by oubliette- http://ift.tt/1VcwWA7 nosleep
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