Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Willow says it’ll be like that for a while,” Brenna said. “Up and down. One step forward, two steps back. But to focus on the good things. How the bad parts and the sad parts are so much smaller.”

  “That’s what she told me, too,” I said. “That eventually it’ll be two steps forward and one step back.”

  “We just have to keep walking.” We said this at the same time, which cued up a massive gigglefest. Willow repeats herself a lot. I think that’s another thing they learn in therapist school.

  “It’s still hard,” Brenna whispered. “I still compare myself to other people.”

  “I wish I could be small forever.”

  “But is it worth it?”

  Is it? That’s what I have to figure out, I guess.

  Brenna and I stopped talking for a minute while Laura rummaged around the craft closet. She left with watercolors, charcoals, and construction paper. Laura’s pretty good at art. Maybe even better than me. I’m not jealous, though. (At least I keep telling myself not to be.)

  “You asked how I can be so happy?” Brenna asked. “It’s because I pretend. Not all the time, but some of the time. Pretending that things are okay makes me feel brave. Remembering how awful my life was before helps me move forward. Being here makes me feel stronger. It makes me feel safe.”

  Then she turned away and started reading her book. She’s reading one I read last year—Goodbye Stranger by Rebecca Stead. It’s about a bunch of girls and their problems with growing up.

  It’s weird to hear someone talk about the hospital being a safe place. Brenna’s right, though. I do feel safe here. They make me eat here. They make me rest. They teach us to remember what’s good about our lives and help us be strong while our minds are buzzing with anxiety. They’re the mallets in that whack-a-mole game that I’m so bad at, banging at our fears the second they come to the surface.

  There are a lot of moles in my head.

  It’s nice to know that even if Brenna does pretend sometimes, she’s still doing okay. I’m going to try to pretend, too. Maybe I won’t be happy all the time. Maybe I won’t have some blissfully perfect life. Maybe I’ll still have problems.

  But a little happiness is better than none.

  DAY TEN: WEDNESDAY

  “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 importan
t 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.

  DAY ELEVEN: THURSDAY

  I didn’t do crunches last night. Ali didn’t either. The night staff kept looking in at us after lights-out, so we never got a chance. I wonder if they suspect anything. I wonder if we’re going to get in trouble. I wonder if I should stop for good.

  Ali’s upset. She keeps glaring at me like it’s my fault she didn’t get to exercise.

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  I was so surprised that I practically yelled the word no. I probably sounded super guilty, because Ali stepped closer. She peered into my eyes. “Are you telling the truth?”

  My armpits started to sweat, like they do when I have to give a book report in front of the class. (Totally the most embarrassing thing ever. At least I know to wear black on presentation days now.) “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I hope not. Because I feel gross this morning.”

  Maybe Ali feels gross, but I feel … good? If not good, then not bad. Not guilty.

  I feel like I’m doing the right thing.

  * * *

  “I’m hungry.” The second I said it, I wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. Stuff them in like the food I stuff in every day.

  I’m more stuffed than a teddy bear.

  If I’m eating more than ever, why am I hungry, though? I think that’s why I told Willow. I wanted an answer. I wanted confirmation that my body wasn’t broken, that I hadn’t hurt it beyond repair.

  “Of course you’re hungry.” Willow smiled, but it wasn’t a know-it-all, “look how smart I am” smile. It was the kind of smile Mom used to give me when I was afraid of monsters underneath my bed. When she mixed rose petals with water in a spray bottle and labeled it MONSTER SPRAY. When we were united against a common enemy.

  “You’ve been starving your body for a while now,” Willow said. “So even though your brain might feel like you’re eating a lot, your body is screaming that it wants more. That it needs more.” Willow adjusted her headband. She wears the coolest headbands. Yesterday’s was gold with sparkly stars. Today’s was a long paisley scarf she knotted at her neck. The ends trailed down her back like long floppy ears. “You have a big deficit to make up for. Plus, your metabolism is finally working again.”

  “But I don’t like being hungry. I don’t want to eat more.”

  The sick part of me doesn’t want more food. That part knows that more food means gaining weight faster.

  The healthy part of me likes eating, though. It likes laughing. It likes living in a world without fuzz around the edges.

  “So it’s okay if I eat more?” I wasn’t sure if I was asking Willow for permission or telling myself that it was okay to want. I just knew that I had to say the words out loud. I
had to hear her answer.

  “It’s okay,” Willow said. “It’s normal. Your body is doing exactly what it’s supposed to be doing. It’s repairing. It’s learning to trust you. It’s getting strong so you can live your life.”

  I’m still not sure how I feel about that word: strong. It sounds like a good word. It makes me feel powerful. Determined. Like a superhero.

  But it also makes me sound big. Superheroes have muscles. Superheroes weigh more.

  But who really cares about Wonder Woman’s weight, as long as she saves the world?

  * * *

  I just farted three times in a row, and the room smells like death. I really hope no one notices, but Ali keeps looking at me. She’s rifling through an old copy of O magazine for art therapy, cutting out phrases like “Live Your Best Life” and “The Power of You” for the collages we’re making.

  I wonder if she’ll start blackmailing me because of my death farts, too.

  It probably wouldn’t be a big deal if I admitted it was me. That’s something Willow told me, that farting is normal while our bodies are getting used to food again. Constipation, too. And bloating. So basically our stomachs are plotting revenge against us.

  “You’re all farting machines now.” Willow laughed. I did, too. (Farts never stop being funny.) “But it’ll level off, just like your anxiety. That’s what you have to remember when you’re eating and when your stomach hurts. Anxiety comes in waves. It starts out low, then peaks into panic.”

  I nodded. I know that feeling. My anxiety peaks all the time. Especially when I eat fear foods. We talked about fear foods during Nutrition Group yesterday.

  Brenna’s is ice cream.

  Laura’s are juice and butter.

  Meredith’s is chocolate.

  Mine is peanut butter.

  Normal people are afraid of undercooked meat. Or raw eggs. Stuff that can make them sick. For us, fear foods are things we’re afraid will make us gain weight or lose control. In here, they make us try new things to prove our fear foods won’t kill us.