Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  I never used to think about things like health insurance. I went to the doctor every year for checkups. Julia went when she sprained an ankle. We saw the dentist twice a year and the eye doctor once a year. Mom, Aunt Rose, and Aunt Tricia all have glasses, so Mom’s convinced we’re going to need them, even though Julia and I have 20/20 vision every time.

  Mom explained it all to me once. She has to pay something called a co-pay, and insurance pays the rest. “The rest” is usually a lot of money. That’s why doctors are so rich. Why Camille and her heart surgeon parents live in a huge house with a built-in pool and a cabana. Because something as simple as an X-ray can cost hundreds of dollars. When Mom had surgery for her broken leg, it probably cost the insurance company tens of thousands of dollars.

  I didn’t cost us that much, though. Because insurance companies know that people need operations. That those sorts of things are necessary.

  Apparently eating disorder treatment isn’t necessary.

  “My insurance told my parents they wouldn’t pay because I’m not sick enough,” Laura said. (Laura weighs practically nothing.)

  “My insurance isn’t paying because I’m normal weight,” Aisha said. “Even though I threw up all the time and fainted in the middle of class.”

  Laura’s and Aisha’s families can pay for treatment, though. Brenna’s family can’t. Brenna’s family is already struggling to pay the regular bills. Brenna’s family would lose their house if they had to pay the tens of thousands of dollars to let her stay here.

  TENS OF THOUSANDS!

  What would happen if our insurance stopped covering my stay? Would Mom and Dad have to take out a loan? Would they have to decide between my treatment and Julia’s gymnastics?

  I don’t think I could stand it if my parents chose some random gymnastics competitions over my life. They might. They might decide they’re wasting their money if I’m still struggling so much. Dad used to ask me why I couldn’t just “decide to recover.” “Put your mind to it and try,” he said.

  I can’t control this, though. I can’t just make a decision and be done with everything.

  I’ve made lots of decisions over the past few weeks. I’ve decided to recover over and over again, but I always get scared. I always slip back. And if I keep slipping back, then why wouldn’t my parents give up on me? Why wouldn’t they decide I’m not worth the money?

  They might.

  They probably should.

  * * *

  Brenna’s worried about relapsing. She says she’s not ready yet, that she’s already thinking about the food that’s in her pantry at home and what diet she should go on. “I don’t want to think like that, but I can’t help it! It’s like the thoughts are a magnet. I keep pulling back, but it’s stronger than me.” She was almost crying. “I know I’ll relapse if I leave. They say I’m better, but I’m not.”

  The counselors say that about me, too. But they don’t see the mess inside my head.

  “My insurance says I’m not ‘sick enough’ to be here now.” Brenna spat the words out like they were rotten. “That since I haven’t binged or purged in a month, I’m all better.” She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Not being at risk for death is the only thing they care about. Not that I’m scared that the second I get out of here, I’m going to get caught up in the cycle again. Riley, what if I can’t do this?”

  Brenna kept saying it over and over, echoing the words that tumble around my head like clothes in the washing machine: What if I can’t do this?

  I’m scared, too. I don’t know what’s going to happen in our family meeting tomorrow. Will Willow yell at me? Will Mom and Dad bring me home and lock me in my room forever? Will Julia disown me as her big sister?

  All I could do was give Brenna a hug. I didn’t have the energy to do more than that.

  * * *

  I didn’t finish dinner tonight. My stomach hurt too much, from anger and fear and regret. I felt like I was going to barf. At least I drank the Boost. I didn’t want to get in any more trouble. I didn’t want Mom and Dad to be even more angry at me. The vanilla flavor was gross, though, like watered-down ice cream.

  I should have eaten the food instead. I need to eat the food from now on.

  Everyone on the staff is looking at me like I’m a criminal. I feel like Robbie Johnson in the lunchroom at school. All the lunch ladies (and the lunch man) stare at him the entire period because he started a food fight that one time. After that, he became a “troublemaker,” even though he’s really nice and always helps me with my math homework.

  I don’t like feeling like a troublemaker. I don’t want to get kicked out. Every time I think about leaving, I get a pit in my stomach. It’s the way I used to feel when I thought about eating dessert or skipping a run. The way I felt when I stepped on the scale and saw a higher number.

  Now I feel that emptiness at the thought of being discharged.

  The world is big and mean.

  I’m not ready to face it yet.

  DAY TWENTY-TWO: MONDAY

  We had a good-bye party for Brenna today. They do it with all the patients who “graduate.” She filled out her snowflake and taped it to the dining room wall. Brenna’s snowflake said she was letting go of “not being enough.”

  I like the way she put that. It’s how I feel, too. Not enough of an athlete. Not enough of a student or a friend or a daughter.

  Not enough of a me.

  We made a book for Brenna out of construction paper. It looks like the one I made in kindergarten, the one Mom still has in her keepsake box. I called it All About Riley and drew a picture of myself on the cover, complete with huge elephant ears and hands bigger than my head. On each page I drew a picture of something I loved:

  An ice cream cone.

  The Little Mermaid movie.

  Puppies.

  Nail polish.

  I wonder what I’d draw today. What do I love now? Definitely not running. Every time I think about track practice, a hole opens up in my stomach. Not a hunger hole. A hatred hole, one that’s bleak and lonely. I hate running. It makes me push myself until I hurt. It makes me hate myself when I don’t measure up. (I never measure up.)

  I’m glad I don’t have to run when I leave here.

  What else?

  I love watching silly TV shows with Julia.

  I love reading. I love action stories, but also books like The House That Lou Built and Turtle in Paradise, books with girls who don’t care what other people think about them. I like those girls. I want to be friends with them, not with people like Talia or Camille.

  I love hanging out with Emerson and Josie.

  I love drawing. I love seeing what my hand can create, how I can transform reality into color and shape.

  This book was for Brenna, though, one she can take with her to remember us. We each got a page where we had to write something we liked about her. I had to think for a while, because there are tons of things I love about Brenna. I doodled while I thought. I drew a wave with a surfer gliding in to shore. I drew Wonder Woman and Supergirl and Poison Ivy. I gave them different body types, one big and one small and one in-between. I drew Superman zooming into the sky.

  You’re strong, I wrote. You’re the strongest, bravest person I know. You are 100 percent yourself and you can do this.

  Brenna smiled at me when she read it. We hugged for a long time.

  I hope she’ll be okay.

  And deep down, no matter how much “trouble” I make, I hope I can be okay, too. I hope that in our family meeting this afternoon, Mom and Dad don’t yell at me. I hope they tell me how much they love me.

  I hope they’ll help me be strong and brave, too.

  * * *

  It was quiet at lunch today. Everyone kept looking at the empty seat where Brenna usually sits. There was no one talking about how Luna was so underused in the Harry Potter books or debating which of the Avengers is the strongest. No one giving us graphic novel recommendations until everyone el
se rolled their eyes and I told Brenna to stop until I had a pen to write down all the titles.

  I ate all my food, even with Ali staring at me the whole time. The sandwich tasted dry and the chips were greasy, but I did it. One bite at a time.

  Two hours until the family meeting.

  * * *

  One hour until the family meeting.

  I’m drawing to pass the time, as usual. I took out the pictures I’ve made of the other girls in here and lined them up on the group room table. I was planning on critiquing myself, on making a mental list of all the ways I’d messed things up.

  Then Laura came over. “This looks just like me!” she said.

  “Your mouth looks off, though.” I wanted to grab the picture back and tear it up. Then there’d be no evidence that my drawings were anything but perfect.

  “No, it looks awesome.” Laura paused, staring at the picture of herself. “Do I really look like this? My body, I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure what the right answer was, so I decided to go for the truth. “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I think you’re pretty.” I decided not to mention the size of her body. I didn’t want to do what Ali and I used to, when we reassured each other we were still skinny. I wanted to stop focusing on our bodies, like the counselors try to do.

  “This definitely isn’t what I look like inside my head,” said Meredith. “I look so graceful.” I’d drawn her in a tutu, with a poofy skirt and satiny toe shoes.

  “You are graceful,” Aisha said. “I can’t wait to see you onstage someday.”

  “We can all go together!” Laura laughed.

  “Have you made one of you?” Aisha asked.

  I blushed. There was a drawing of me, buried inside the pages of my drawing notebook. I drew it this morning after breakfast. It was hard to draw, maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever made. It felt wrong to spend so much time on myself, to think about how I looked without judging. I wanted to make every part of me smaller. Narrower. Tinier.

  I tried to make it realistic, though. I tried to make it true. In the end, the picture didn’t look exactly like me. But it was close. I didn’t throw it away, and it didn’t look hideous.

  Maybe I don’t look hideous, either.

  Even if my drawings don’t exactly match the images in my head, that doesn’t mean I didn’t do a good job. And even if I don’t look exactly how I want to be, that doesn’t mean I’m not a good person.

  My drawings are unique, something only I can create.

  Me.

  Only me.

  * * *

  I thought therapists were supposed to be nice all the time, all reasonable and calm and “you’re doing wonderful and you’re amazing.”

  Not Willow. Not today. Today Willow only wanted to talk about what I’d done wrong. She acted like I was a juvenile delinquent who’d thrown eggs at the police station or driven a car into a house.

  A kid who’d stopped eating her meal plan.

  “Skipping meals, Riley?” Willow wasn’t angry; she was disappointed. And that was so much worse.

  “I didn’t want to eat.” I could have told Willow how angry I was at Mom and Dad. How I’m so scared about having no friends that my stomach is tied up in knots.

  Except I couldn’t get my mouth to work. I couldn’t get my lips to move, even though I knew we only had a half hour together before Mom and Dad showed up. All of a sudden, I was angry again. I was angry at being confronted. At always being the one who’s wrong. At Willow not taking the time to talk to me about how I felt, not just what I’d done.

  “We need to talk about this, Riley. You don’t want to go backward. You have so much to look forward to.” Willow’s hands were in her lap. She had a silver ring on her right hand. It was new and made her fingers look long and slim. I wonder if Willow likes the size of her fingers. I wonder if she likes the size of her body.

  I wonder if she even cares.

  “What do I have to look forward to?” I finally exclaimed. “Getting out of here and having Mom on my back about everything I eat? Emerson and Josie realizing we don’t have anything in common anymore? Dad shutting me out of his life?” I didn’t know why I was yelling. It was hard to breathe. My heart was fighting to escape my chest. My body wanted to escape her office. I wanted to tell Willow that I do want to get better, I really do. But the words wouldn’t come.

  “Life.” Willow’s voice was calm and even, like I wasn’t freaking out in front of her, like tears weren’t rolling down my cheeks and snot wasn’t dripping from my nose. “You have life to look forward to.”

  “What kind of life?” I asked. “One where no one cares about me? Where people make fun of me?”

  “Riley.” Willow leaned forward. “We’ve talked about this before.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “People like me. The ones who don’t shouldn’t matter. Blah blah blah. I get it. I should know this by now. I should be better. But I’m not.” The tears came faster. “I still don’t believe everything you tell me. I still feel awful all the time!”

  “You’re supposed to feel awful,” Willow reminded me. “Recovery isn’t all rainbows and daisies.”

  “But you just said I should be happy.”

  “I want you to be happy eventually,” Willow said. “I want you to love your body eventually. And you will. But it takes time. And beating yourself up for not being further in recovery will only make you feel worse.”

  “It does.” My voice was small.

  “Even ‘normal’ people aren’t happy all the time.” Willow looked at the clock. Twenty minutes until my parents showed up. “They have hard days and they cry. Normal people even dislike their bodies sometimes.”

  “They do?”

  “They do,” Willow confirmed. “But bad feelings pass. The anxiety wave rises and crests and falls. And those people move on with their day and with their life. They move on to the next happy moment. Those happy moments will come, I promise. You don’t have to starve your body to numb the bad feelings anymore.”

  “I know,” I whispered. I looked at the swirly painting on Willow’s wall, the one with all the colors of the rainbow that always feels like it’s sucking me in.

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You won’t be, Riley.” Willow put her hand on my shoulder. “Your family and friends might just surprise you. And if they don’t, you can handle it. You’re strong. You can beat this disease.”

  Willow’s words were a hug, wrapping me in belief and love.

  “So can you explain why you skipped those meals?”

  “I was upset,” I said. “And sad. It made me feel better to have an empty stomach.”

  “Is empty better?” Willow held up a hand. “Take a few seconds to think about that.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at the clock again. Tick tock! Tick tock! I could almost hear the Jeopardy! music in my head.

  My first instinct was DUH! OF COURSE EMPTY IS GOOD. Then I realized that I’ve felt awful for the past few days. I’ve felt awful for the past year.

  “It felt good at first. But then I felt guilty. The Boosts were gross, and skipping meals got me in trouble. It didn’t make Josie and Emerson visit. It made me feel guilty. Hungry, too.” I felt like I was going to cry. “I was just so angry at everyone. And I didn’t hide that brownie. Really!”

  I started crying again. I’m so sick of crying.

  “It doesn’t feel right anymore! Why doesn’t it feel right?” I didn’t know why I was crying. I didn’t know if I was upset that I’d skipped meals or if I was upset that I didn’t want to skip meals anymore. I’m so confused. Is this what getting better is like? Constantly changing my mind? Feeling guilty about feeling guilty?

  “What doesn’t feel right?” Willow put a hand on mine. Her hand was soft. I wanted to hold on tight. I wanted her to promise never to let go.

  “Lying. Hiding. Being sick.” I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid of what would come now that I’d said the words out loud. Saying them changed things. It made my decis
ion to recover real.

  It made it impossible to go back.

  Willow leaned back in her chair. She smiled. I kept talking. “It’s like I’ve been wearing a sweater for the past year. It used to be comfy and soft. It used to keep me warm and safe. It kept branches from scratching me and rain from chilling my skin.”

  “What’s happened to that sweater now?” Willow asked.

  “It’s tight now. It’s itchy and scratchy and doesn’t fit anymore. But not in a ‘because I’m gaining weight’ kind of way. It just doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t protect me.”

  “It gives you a rash?” Willow looked like she was suppressing a giggle. I let myself crack a tiny smile.

  “An awful rash.”

  “You’re recovering, Riley.” Willow’s smile was the biggest I’d ever seen it. “And I do believe you. Even if you have been acting out. Because that’s what recovery is. Slips and falls and learning from your mistakes.”

  “You believe me?”

  “I do.” Willow nodded. “You didn’t hide that brownie.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Willow believed me!

  “One step at a time,” she said. “I’ll be here to help you. And hopefully, so will your parents.”

  That’s when I heard the knock on the door. Mom’s voice in the hallway. Dad coughing.

  My parents were here, but I definitely wasn’t ready. Especially since they didn’t even pause for a hug or a kiss or whatever signs of affection parents usually give their children.

  “Why did you hide food, Riley?” Mom asked. “You were doing so well.” Mom had tears in her eyes. Dad stared at his hands.

  “I didn’t do it.” I’ve been repeating those same four words for the past two days. I’ll keep saying them until everyone believes me. “Someone must have put the brownie there. I was framed. I know who did it, too.” I felt like I was on some TV legal drama where the judge was about to bang a gavel and condemn me to life in prison. All the evidence was against me.