“Let’s talk about your family.”
Willow’s greeting made my chest squeeze like there was a python wrapped around me. A python forcing out words instead of air, words that I want to keep inside where it’s dark. Inside where they can stay hidden.
I don’t want to talk about my family.
I want to eat the hospital food, listen to their lectures, and do this whole recovery thing. I want to snap my fingers so—TA-DA!—everything will be better.
I don’t need to talk to do that.
Willow thinks I do, though. Willow loves to talk. I bet Willow goes home and talks to herself. If she’s married, I bet she talks to her husband until he puts in earplugs. I bet she talks to her dog.
I don’t want her to talk to me.
Except we did talk, because after two whole minutes of quiet, I had to say something. That’s one thing I’ve realized over the last week—it’s way worse to sit in silence than to open my mouth. (And I hate to admit it, but I do feel better when I leave Willow’s office.)
“I don’t like my family.”
I expected Willow’s eyes to open wide in shock. I expected her to tell me that I was an awful daughter, that my parents were paying for my treatment and how dare I not like them?
She didn’t say any of that. Willow took a sip of water. That’s all the counselors are allowed to drink around us. No soda, no juice, no coffee or tea. Just water. They can’t eat, either, even when we’re eating our meals. Aisha thinks they only eat meals at the beginning and the end of the day, like her family does during Ramadan—that their time here is one big fast. I like to imagine they’re robots who plug into charging cables at set times for their nutrients.
At least my Willow Robot has emotions. Because she didn’t act like I was a selfish, ungrateful jerk. She told me it’s okay to feel the way I feel. I’ve never heard anyone say that before.
“Whatever you tell me stays in this room,” Willow said. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
I’m still not sure I believe her. I wonder if my confessions are written in that folder with my name on it. I wonder if everyone looks at them and talks about me. I wondered, but I still talked. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
“I don’t know what I can do.” I felt like I was going to cry. I feel like that a lot in here. Willow says it’s because I’m not pushing down my emotions with all the distractions of the eating disorder.
“Do about what?”
“I don’t know what I can do to make my parents love me.” That’s when I broke down. I cried those ugly tears that plop everywhere like raindrops. The tears that leave my eyes red and blotchy. The ones I cried in the bathroom every time Talia and her crew made fun of me.
“Why don’t you think they love you?” Willow didn’t look at me like I was a loser, but I still felt like one.
“They sent me here like I’m some criminal who robbed a store. Mom’s only visited me one time. Dad doesn’t call because he thinks I’m broken. Julia’s the special one. Julia’s the one they want.”
I started crying again, and Willow leaned over to hug me. I’m not sure if she’s supposed to do that, but it felt nice.
“Do you think your parents are scared?”
It was a question I’ve never thought about before. I never think about my parents’ feelings. I mean, I think about how they get mad at me. How Dad loves building stuff and Mom helped campaign during the last presidential election. But I never think about the deep-down feelings, the ones that make Mom and Dad real people.
“About what?” I asked. “I mean, they worry about money a lot. They pay for Julia’s gymnastics stuff, and I guess the hospital costs a lot, too.”
“What about you, though?” Willow asked. “Do you think they’re scared about you?” I must have looked confused, because Willow kept talking. “Scared you’re going to die?”
“I’m not going to die.”
“You could.” Willow’s nice therapist expression turned serious. She looked like my teachers do when no one’s done the assigned reading. “People die from eating disorders, Riley. It happens. It’s happened in here.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
“I don’t want to die,” I said. “I won’t. Everything’s fine.”
That’s what I always said to Mom and Dad. Everything’s fine. I never believed myself, though. I bet they never believed me, either. What if they are afraid I’m going to die? What if they worry about me as much as they cheer for Julia?
“Maybe that’s why your dad is so scared to talk to you,” Willow said gently. “Maybe he’s afraid of what’s happening. Maybe he’s afraid of making things worse.”
I thought about how Dad flinches away from me like a scared rabbit. The way he pauses before he says anything, like his words are flames and I’m a pile of kindling. I thought about how we used to watch Pixar movies together and act out our favorite scenes. How he used to ride the bike path with me and always let me beat him when we raced.
I thought about Mom, how she let me dust the pictures in her old gallery, even though it was probably against the rules, because I told her I wanted to be “just like her.” How she came to my first track meet, even though she was late. How she read me a chapter of Harry Potter every night for years, even when she was on a business trip and we had to FaceTime.
How she researched how to help me and sent me to a place where I could be helped.
“Maybe they do love me?”
“Maybe they can love two daughters at the same time?”
“Then why is gymnastics the most important thing in the world? Why did I have to quit art because I wasn’t good enough?”
Willow paused, letting me know that something very important and very therapist-y was coming. “Did your parents tell you to quit art?”
“Yes! Well, no. I mean…”
Then our time was up. Jean knocked on the door and told Willow it was time for me to eat lunch. I left the office. Willow left me with questions.
Did Mom tell me to quit art? Did anyone tell me my drawings weren’t good enough? Or is that something I told myself? Did I quit before I could even get better?
Mom did want to help me, no matter how angry she looked after the Great Lasagna Catastrophe. That’s what I call the follow-up to the Treadmill Incident. It was what made Mom finally break down and call the hospital.
Okay, I know I shouldn’t have thrown a fit because Mom used the full-fat mozzarella cheese. But I couldn’t eat it, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself it was no big deal.
“Why didn’t you use fat-free cheese?” I was so upset my hand was shaking. “You have some in the fridge!”
“You girls need protein for your growing bones,” Mom said. “A bit of cheese won’t kill you.”
That’s what she thought. A bit of cheese would most definitely kill me.
“I’m not going to eat it.” I crossed my arms over my chest. I knew Mom would get mad, but I couldn’t stop myself. Every inch of my body was on high alert.
Danger! Abort!
“It’s dinnertime, Riley.” Mom sighed, a drawn-out “my life is so difficult” sigh. “You need to eat.”
“I don’t need to eat.”
“Riley, cut the crap.” My eyes widened. Mom never talked like that. Especially to me. I couldn’t back down, though.
“I’ll eat later. I’ll eat salad.” I pulled the big bowl toward me and scooped out some lettuce. It’s probably all you’re going to eat, anyway. (I didn’t say that last part.)
“You’ll eat more than lettuce, missy.” Mom put a huge piece of lasagna on my plate. I stared at the gooey cheese. The delicious noodles. The homemade tomato sauce. My mouth literally watered. There was actual water in my mouth.
I wanted more than water in there. I wanted food. I wanted lasagna.
Except I couldn’t have it. I wouldn’t let myself. I pushed the plate away. Pretend it’s dog food, I coached myself. Pretend it’s been poisoned. You don’t want to eat poison.
“Eat your food,” Mom said. “This isn’t all about you.” She looked at the pile of bills on the other side of the table. Some were opened, some unopened. The pile was teetering, the top bill about to slide down the others like a toboggan on a blanket of freshly fallen snow. “I can’t deal with this drama on top of everything else. Especially when your father has been working late all week.”
I wanted to help Mom feel better. I knew that gymnastics costs a lot of money. I knew my parents were stressed. But they were stressing me out, too. Why couldn’t Mom and Dad understand that I couldn’t eat the lasagna?
Mom didn’t push it. Julia ate her big piece of lasagna and Mom ate her teeny-tiny one. I ate my salad. Mom’s hands trembled as she ate. She called the hospital the next day.
Back then, I thought Mom’s hands were shaking with anger. Now I wonder if she was scared. If she felt as helpless then as I do now.
If Mom is just as human as me.
Aisha was upset after snack tonight. She didn’t want to do a check-in with a counselor, so I got some paper from the craft cabinet. I asked her to draw with me.
Brenna came over to work on a collage. Aisha drew a house. She said it was the only thing she could draw well. I told her that was okay, that I wasn’t that good, either. Everyone else wandered over, too. They watched and we talked as I tried to draw Meredith.
We all started talking, like how Emerson and Josie and I used to talk during sleepovers, when we were up for so long that we couldn’t stop ourselves from sharing every single thing on our minds.
Brenna told us that two girls at school set up a whole website dedicated to why she’s a total freak.
Laura told us she’s afraid her boyfriend hasn’t kissed her yet because she’s not skinny enough.
Aisha told us her parents won’t let her celebrate Ramadan this year, that that’s “one whole month of starving I’ll miss out on.”
I wanted to tell them about Talia making fun of me. I opened my mouth a few times, the confession dancing on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t, though. It may have felt like a sleepover, but I knew it wasn’t. If I told them how I used to be bigger, they might make fun of me. They might see me differently.
But maybe they would understand. Maybe they’re not staring at my body, separating it into pieces that need to be whittled down to fit. After all, everyone here has problems. We’re all worried about something. And tonight, their compliments weren’t about my body.
The other girls watched as I drew Meredith. No one told me her ears were too pointy. No one said my shadowing wasn’t good enough.
I was the only one doing that.
Meredith told me I was talented and that she would keep the picture forever. “I look … pretty,” she said. She sounded like she’d discovered buried treasure.
Laura told me it was cool how I got us all to hang out together.
Aisha told me I made her feel better.
I think they like me.