Wednesday's Child by Shane Dunphy

behaviour is always predictable. I was well aware that Gillian responding this way did not in any sense mean that she would behave in the same way the next day – maybe it was better that I didn’t know what had produced the response. Sometimes it’s possible to be
too
analytical.
     
    Our waitress approached.
     
    ‘Good. Here’s the food.’
     
    Gillian’s face dropped, but I ignored it.
     
    The waitress dumped plates, bowls, cups, cutlery and bottles of water unceremoniously onto the table and stalked back to her post. I arranged things in front of us. The soup was a rustic, home-made vegetable soup. Its aroma wafted up at us from the deep bowls. I picked up my spoon and sampled the fare. It was hot and pleasant, if a bit bland, but I knew that enough protein, vitamins and nutrients would be in it to do her the world of good if I could get her to keep it down for any length time at all. A puréed soup would take very little time to digest, so a lot of it would go straight into her system.
     
    Gillian was looking into the bowl with an expression approaching horror on her skeletal face. I looked at the soup spoon that sat on the table before her and reached over and took it. I gave her instead the teaspoon that had come with my coffee. Expecting her to use a soup spoon was simply ridiculous. She looked up at me and tears welled in her eyes and dribbled silently down her cheeks. I grinned at herreassuringly, knowing that this was a huge challenge for her. There was no pretence to hide behind, no bravado any more. I patted her gently on the hand.
     
    ‘Slowly. One spoonful at a time. Little sips.’
     
    She nodded, sniffed and picked up the teaspoon. She sat with it in her hand for a moment, looking at the steaming food. Then she dipped the spoon into it, the tip of the utensil just breaking the surface, and took it back out lightly coated with soup. Not exactly what could be called a spoonful. Her face had an expression of such utter distaste etched onto it that I felt truly sorry for her, but I did not relent.
     
    ‘Go on, Gillian.’
     
    She looked at me, still crying silently, and smeared some of the puree onto her lower lip. I saw her tongue dart out and lick off the offending material. We had begun.
     
    I chatted about trivialities throughout the meal, every now and again coaxing her on. I ate, but hardly tasted what I was eating, my attention focused completely on her and her progress. I knew that she was never going to finish what was in the bowl, not today, but I was committed to sticking with it for as long as was feasible. I knew that eventually she would be able to stomach no more, and that I would know when that time had arrived. I felt admiration creep over me again for this child. She was trying so hard, struggling to overcome this terrible thing. Her will was amazing to witness.
     
    When she had consumed around half of what wasin the bowl, she let the spoon fall on to the tabletop. We had been sitting in the café for close to an hour. She picked up her water glass and gulped a few mouthfuls. Her face had taken on a greenish tinge, and I knew that critical mass had been achieved.
     
    ‘You want to go to the bathroom.’
     
    She nodded vigorously.
     
    ‘I’m letting you go today, like I said I would.’
     
    More nods. She was beyond the power of speech, the urge to purge herself of the soup like a physical pain.
     
    ‘The next time I come out with you, you keep the food down. I want you to promise me you’ll try. We’ll work on this together, and y’know, I think we might just be able to beat it.’
     
    ‘Okay. I need to go now.’
     
    ‘Go on then.’
     
    In her urge to get to the toilet, she didn’t even bother to close the bathroom door. Sounds of gagging and something splashing into the toilet water could be heard clearly. The waitress looked around with the same bored look and returned to her reading. The old woman seemed to be asleep and made no show of having heard a