And to my parents, my word meant nothing.
“You’re here to gain weight, Riley, not to waste this opportunity. You need to get back on track.” Dad rubbed his eyes. “Do you know how much this place costs?”
Of course. Money is what matters here.
“Dad, that’s not the point. You have to listen. Ali set me up. She put the food under my bed because of the whole crunches thing.”
“Crunches thing?” Whoops. Mom wasn’t supposed to know that part. “You’re doing crunches? And what kind of place is this that patients can just sneak out of the dining room with food?”
“The staff is allowed to make a mistake, Mom! Maybe someone looked away for one second while Ali hid her brownie. It doesn’t mean this isn’t a good program.”
“So you’re defending this place now?” Dad looked like he was about to explode. “Of course you are; you’re still skinny. You’re still sick.”
A thrill ran up my spine. Still skinny! I’m still skinny!
No! That’s not what matters. What matters is getting through to my parents. What matters is making them understand that I don’t want to be sick anymore.
Willow raised her hand. “Miranda. Nathaniel. Riley’s right; we may have missed something. Another patient’s actions were overlooked. But we’re human, too. We’re doing the best we can. Let’s try to focus on what Riley has to say without blame.”
I snorted. “Without blame. Right. That’s not going to happen.”
Mom stood up. “Well, what am I supposed to think, Riley? You didn’t want to go out to eat with me a few days ago. Now you’re hiding food and blaming other people. Where’s all this progress we’re supposed to be seeing?”
“Did you even hear Willow?” I asked. “I. Didn’t. Do. It. Anyway, you guys don’t know what I’m doing in here! You don’t know how hard I’m working every day. How I’m eating and being honest. How I’m actually feeling better about this whole weight-gain thing.”
Most of the time.
“But you’re not following the rules.” Dad sounded confused. He kept looking at Willow like he expected her to yell at me. In my parents’ world, that’s what would have happened. When people break the rules, they get in trouble. When they’re not perfect, they’re scolded.
“That means you’re still sick.” Mom spoke like she was the therapist, like it was her job to deliver the verdict on whether I’m sick or not.
In her mind, maybe I’ll always be sick.
“Riley’s going to be sick for a while,” Willow said.
Mom and Dad smiled, like Willow was on their side. My mouth dropped open. “Hey!”
“I’m not blaming you, Riley,” Willow said. “And I’m not saying you’re not working hard. What I am saying is that you’re still sick. Would you agree with me on that point?”
Well, yeah.
Willow turned to Mom and Dad again. “Recovery is a journey,” she said. “It takes months, sometimes years. You can’t rush it.”
“Why not?” Dad grumbled under his breath. “It shouldn’t be that hard.” But I totally heard him. We all totally heard him.
“Recovery is hard.” Willow looked Dad in the eye. She stared at him until he looked away. But then the coolest thing happened—Willow waited for Dad to make eye contact with her again, like he was some misbehaving toddler who’d drawn on the wall with crayons. She waited and waited until he finally looked up.
“Thank you,” Willow said. “We all need to be part of this meeting for it to help you three. We all need to listen and learn.”
“I don’t need help,” said Mom. “Neither does Nathaniel. Riley’s the one with the problem.” Mom said problem like I had some weird disease that turned my skin blue with pink polka dots. Like I’d grown fangs and warts and smelled like a skunk who’d bathed in rotten milk.
“I don’t have a problem!” I exclaimed.
Mom raised her eyebrows. Dad sighed, that long-suffering sigh he does when someone from work texts him during dinner.
That’s when I started crying. “Okay, I do have a problem. I know I have a problem. But I’m trying. I’m the only one trying. Mom, you won’t stop dieting. Dad, you won’t talk to me. My friends hate me and Ali wants to ruin my life and my head keeps spinning. I can’t stop thinking and my body is growing and I don’t know what’s going on.”
There were so many tears. So much snot. I snorted a few times, too.
Mom didn’t say anything.
Dad didn’t say anything.
I didn’t say anything else.
“Recovery is hard.” Willow’s voice was soft, but we could all hear it. The only other noise in the room was the clock, counting down the minutes until my parents left me again. “Riley isn’t doing this on purpose. She doesn’t want to disobey the rules. She wants to recover.”
“I do!” I piped up.
“Then why is she still sick?” Here’s the weird part. Dad didn’t sound like he was blaming me. He didn’t sound like he was mad. He sounded scared, like I was one of the glass figurines Mom has on a shelf in the dining room and a light breeze would shatter me into pieces.
“Right now, Riley’s brain is wired to keep her sick,” Willow said. “Her body is, too. The chemicals in her head increase Riley’s anxiety when she breaks her old routines and tries new things. Since her body is underweight, it’s harder for her to use logic. So even though Riley’s trying, parts of her are pushing back. She’s going to make mistakes. That’s normal.”
“Normal,” I echoed.
“Riley’s not normal, though.” Willow smiled at me. “Riley is extraordinary. But her journey is normal. Riley, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re working and eating, and I can tell from our sessions that you have a wonderful life ahead of you.”
It’s nice to have someone believe in me.
“You guys need to try, too.” It wasn’t Willow saying that, though. It was me! I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth. I imagined Mom and Dad stomping their feet and turning their backs on me. I imagined them disowning me for disrespect, packing up all my stuff and throwing it on the front lawn.
They didn’t do any of those things.
“Try how?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know what to do,” Dad said.
I waited for Willow to answer, but she looked at me. “Tell them,” she said.
So I told them how Mom’s diets made me feel. I told them how I thought Dad hated me. I told them how I’ve been drawing portraits and am nervous to show them.
“But aren’t I allowed to eat what I want?” Mom asked.
“I’ve been busy, Riley,” Dad said.
“We’d never judge your art, you know that,” Mom said.
I don’t know that. Except I didn’t get a chance to tell them that, because Mom started talking again.
“So you’re saying this is all our fault?” Mom looked at Willow the way I look at Willow, like she could reach out a sturdy tree branch and save our family from drowning. Willow’s not a savior, though. She’s not a superhero.
That’s what I’ve learned in here: we have to be our own superheroes.
“Mom—” I started.
“No.” Mom held up a hand. “I get the whole brain-chemicals stuff. But haven’t you been on medication? Aren’t there groups here? There has to be a point where the excuses stop. You can’t keep blaming your disease. Or your old roommate.”
“I’m not blaming anyone—”
“I still don’t believe you.” Mom pinched the skin between her eyes. “Just last week you told me you were doing better. We had that heart-to-heart, remember? What happened?”
“Stuff happened.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was the only one I had. My parents didn’t cause my eating disorder. My friends or Ali or running or the media didn’t, either. I got sick because of a whole list of ingredients poured into a pot. Sometimes I can taste one ingredient more than another, but everything contributes, along with a few extra ingredients I can’t quite identify.<
br />
I don’t know exactly why I got sick. I don’t know why it’s so hard to get better. All I know is that I have to move forward and figure out how to turn off the flame for good.
“You don’t just skip dinner because of stuff, Riley. You need to eat.”
“I know I need to eat! I am eating!” I wanted to scream at them and pound a pillowcase. I wanted to jump inside their heads and force them to see the truth.
But here’s the amazing thing: You know what I didn’t want to do? I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to skip my next meal. I didn’t think about my body. I was totally focused on my parents and my anger.
I tried to explain what was happening in my head and how cool it was. Willow was proud. Mom and Dad were confused, but they at least congratulated me.
“I’m getting better,” I said. “I promise. Please don’t make me leave.”
“You’re not leaving,” Dad assured me. “You need to be here.”
“But can you afford to let me stay?”
I wanted them to tell me that I was worth more than all the money in the world. That I was priceless and important and they’d never give up on me.
“We’re okay as long as insurance is paying, honey,” Mom said. “You just need to get better. Stop lying. Stop breaking the rules.”
“I’m not lying. I didn’t hide that brownie. Why won’t you believe me? Willow does!”
“Willow doesn’t know you like we do. And Riley, you’ve lied to us a lot.” Mom said it gently, but her words burrowed under my skin like pointy, accusing needles.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
My parents are never going to change. They say they want me to get better. They say they love me. But they’re never going to change.
* * *
“Why’d you do it?” Ali and I were alone in the group room. The other girls were waiting for the bathroom, and Ali was engrossed in her book. I had to pee super badly, but it was the first chance I’d had to confront her. We weren’t alone at night anymore, and the counselors usually trailed her like the stink of BO follows the boys in my grade.
Now, though, it was just me and her. I could tell she wasn’t reading, either. She’d been on the same page forever.
“Why’d I do what?” Ali’s voice was laced with innocence, but the fake kind, the kind that oozes off Talia when she “compliments” me on my outfit:
“Wow! That shirt actually doesn’t make your arms look big.”
“Nice skinny jeans. You’re totally brave to wear them.”
I always stayed silent, even though what I wanted more than anything was to confront Talia or call her a jerk.
I was always too chicken to do that. I’m not chicken anymore, though.
“You hid food underneath my mattress. You got me in trouble.” I forced my voice not to tremble. It’s a good thing I have the very best willpower in the whole wide world.
“I didn’t.” Ali looked down at her book again. She turned the page. She was such a faker.
“You did. You’re the only one who was mad at me. It had to be you.”
“So what are you now, a detective? Little Miss Nancy Drew? Do you need a magnifying glass and a trench coat?”
“Whatever.” I turned around in my chair. I’d given Ali a chance to explain. To prove that, deep down, she did bad things because she was struggling. Because she was haunted by the same ghosts that visited me so often. But she still wanted to shut me out. She still wanted to be sick.
I can’t break through that brick wall. I know that from experience.
Then I heard Ali crying. First soft sobs, so quiet I thought it was the trees rustling outside. Then louder, the choking sobs I’ve cried so often myself.
“I don’t know why I did it,” she sobbed. “I was so afraid you’d tell on me about the crunches. Then I was so mad you did tell. So I did what I’ve done with my food a few times. But this time I put it in a different place. And I told Jean it was you.” Ali glared at me. “Now they won’t leave me alone. I have to follow all the rules.”
“You have to recover, you mean?”
Ugh. I sounded like a Goody-Two-shoes. I sounded as annoying as I thought everyone else did when I first got here. But we should follow the rules, right? As hard as it is, we do have to recover.
“You sounded like you were going to die.”
“I wasn’t going to die.” Ali rolled her eyes. “Everyone says I’m going to die, but I’m not.”
“Why don’t you believe them?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I knew what Ali meant, though, because I feel the same way. Yeah, I know eating disorders kill people, but I never think that could happen to me. I’m not a statistic. I’m stronger than my hunger. I’m invincible. I thought of Brenna and her superheroes again.
“We all have Kryptonite, you know.” I said it softly, more like I was talking to myself than to Ali.
“I don’t even know what that means.” Ali sniffled a whole bunch more. “You’re so weird.”
I didn’t take it as an insult, though. Today, I’m reclaiming weird as a compliment. Because weird doesn’t always have to be bad. Weird just means different, and different can be good.
Different means that I’m me.
“Don’t do it again,” I told Ali. I don’t know if I sounded fierce or if she’d really learned something, because she answered right away.
“I won’t. Never again.”
DAY TWENTY-THREE: TUESDAY
I miss Brenna.
I miss Emerson.
I miss Josie.
I can’t call Brenna, and I’m too scared to call my friends, so I called Julia instead.
Her voice bubbled through the line when she answered. She sounded tired, but the bubbles were still there. The bubbles are always there with Julia. “Mom let me download this cool game on her phone with magical panda bears and unicorns and there’s this awesome quest to find a buried treasure. It’s hard, but I’m so good already. I’ll show you when I see you next. Can I visit—”
I cut her off. “I love you.”
“Huh?”
“I love you. I wanted to tell you that. And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what? What do you mean?”
For being jealous.
For hating you.
For making you worry.
I didn’t say any of those things, though. “I’ll be home soon,” I said. “I’m working hard.”
“I know you are. Oooh! Guess what I did at practice today for the first time?”
“Oooh, what?” I listened. I was excited. I was a good older sister.
I’ll be a good older sister.
* * *
Mom and Dad came to visit tonight. They brought a jigsaw puzzle, one of those five-hundred-piece ones with the smallest pieces in the world. The box had a picture of Cape Cod on it, with a wave breaking and a crab scuttling along the shore and a lighthouse shining from the end of a jetty.
I think a few pieces were missing, and then we kept losing more on the floor. We talked about the new guy at Dad’s work who snaps his gum super loudly and the exhibit Mom saw at some gallery across town: “Lots of modern stuff,” Mom said. “Bright colors. Reclaimed junk.” She peeked at me. “I saw some pictures of unicorns, like you used to draw. Some portraits, too.”
She said she liked them. She said the artist was talented.
I think that was Mom’s way of apologizing. Of being her own version of a lighthouse, shining a beacon for us to see by.
DAY TWENTY-FIVE: THURSDAY
Willow told me to make a list of reasons I want to recover. It sounded cheesy at first (everything here sounds cheesy at first), but I think it’ll help. She told me to look at it anytime I’m having trouble. Anytime I feel anxious or like I want to give up and control my body forever.
I’m going to try to believe that a silly list can help me get better. I guess that’s all I can do, right?
RILEY’S REASONS FOR RECOVERY
1. I can be on the track team again. Not now, but eventually. If I want to.
2. I can go to sleepovers and parties without worrying about food.
3. I can eat pizza and ice cream again.
4. It won’t hurt to sit in a chair without a cushion.
5. I won’t be cold all the time.
6. Emerson and Josie won’t get mad at me for canceling plans.
7. Dillon and Tyler won’t call me “Skinny Bones” and “Skeletor” anymore.
8. I won’t think about food all the time. I can think about school and homework and get good grades again.
9. I won’t be tired every minute of every day.
10. I’ll be able to fall asleep.
11. Mom will be proud of me. (I think.)
12. I will be proud of me. (I know.)
* * *
RILEY’S REASONS TO STAY SICK
(Willow didn’t ask me to make this list, but I did it anyway. It’s shorter than I expected.)
1. I’ll still be skinny.
2. Talia and the other kids at school won’t make fun of my body.
It’s not that long. It’s not that impressive.
DAY TWENTY-SIX: FRIDAY
I’m so sick of wearing hospital gowns. They’re ugly and stained and don’t even cover my butt. I try not to think about where those stains came from. And why the hospital won’t buy new ones. I just put them on, step onto the scale backward, and close my eyes, holding on to the fabric the whole time so the world doesn’t see my behind.
I don’t want to know what I weigh anymore. Isn’t that weird? That number used to be the most important thing in the world to me. Some people need coffee to function in the morning. I needed to know my weight.
I still care, of course. I think I’ll always care. I’ll always wonder. But I don’t want to know now.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do when I see that high number, whatever it is. What if it scares me and I start hating myself again?
Good Enough Page 14
