It’s three weeks later and after midnight when Karen walks into our bathroom and finds me sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding the new food journal that she hid behind the toilet. That night at the emergency room the doctors told Mom that Karen had messed up her stomach with laxatives. When Karen told me about it later she said she’d taken “a whole shitload of laxatives,” and then she laughed and didn’t understand why I didn’t think it was funny. Mom’s taking her to counseling twice a week now. She’s still getting small, I can see her body changing. I don’t know why I thought she wouldn’t get another diary. Maybe because everyone around here pretends like she’s better even as she’s getting smaller.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I hold up the notebook. I know she can’t scream at me like she wants to because then Mom will wake up and find out. I’m going to tell Mom anyway. I stand up, still holding the journal, and walk out of the bathroom. Karen follows me down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door.
The January moon is large. It gives the bare trees shadows. Our socks crunch on the frozen grass as Karen follows me to the small swamp on the side of our house. Heavy frogs poke their eyes out of the slimy water. I walk with numb feet into the swamp, rock to rock, until I am in the center. Karen stays at the muddy edge, her arms crossed in front of her. I squat down and push on a rock, feel that it’s loose, and then roll it to its side, leaving a hole that fills with water. I hold the journal up so Karen can see it, and drop it into the hole. Freezing swamp water splashes up at me. I don’t flinch. I roll the rock back into place. My voice carries as I walk back to Karen: “There’s snakes in here. There’s a snake right under that rock. A black one that’s as big as my arm. It’s wrapped around it already. It’s having babies on it, and they’re eating the paper and there’s nothing left.”
I walk by her and don’t look back. I let myself think I’ve taken care of it. Of her. I’ll tell Mom tomorrow.