I’ll be amazing.
DAY THIRTY-THREE: FRIDAY
Brenna’s curled up in the corner of the couch, her earbuds stuffed in her ears, her eyes closed. She’s been so sad ever since she came back. I keep trying to talk to her about what happened, but she ignores me every time.
“What happened to you?” I whispered. I didn’t mean for her to overhear, but she did. I was glad she did. I needed to know where she’d gone wrong. I needed to know so I could do things right.
Brenna’s eyes opened. “It’s hard out there.” Her eyelids closed again, but I couldn’t hear her music anymore. I knew she was listening.
“I thought you were going to get better?” I asked. “I thought we were both going to.”
“I didn’t do this on purpose, Riley.” Brenna sat up. Her fists were clenched, her voice loud. “Relapsing doesn’t make me bad, either. I just … it’s hard out there. And I wasn’t strong enough.” Tears ran down her face. “There’s so much to deal with.”
I imagined a giant obstacle course, except instead of climbing walls and pits of fire, there were moms on diets or friends complaining about their clothing size. Instead of balance beams and rope swings, there were tight-fitting clothes and a world that denied us the freedom to live in our own bodies.
“I started a diet,” Brenna said. “Just a little one, because someone at school made fun of me. I thought that maybe if I lost weight, things would be better. People would like me.”
“I like you,” I said.
“No one else does.” Brenna laughed, but it was a sour laugh, full of lemon and vinegar. “Even that girl I danced with laughed at me. I thought we were friends. Then, after a few days of dieting, I was hungry. So I ate. I ate to spite all those awful people in school and I ate to spite myself. Because I’ll never get better. Never ever ever.”
“You will get better.” The words sounded hollow. I could knock on them and hear the echo for a million years.
Because I don’t know if Brenna will get better.
I don’t know if I will, either.
I’ll try, though. I’ll learn from Brenna and plan for the hard stuff. I’ll wish on stars, but I’ll also do the work.
I will get better.
* * *
I GET TO GO TO THE ART SHOW NEXT WEEKEND!
I’m leaving the hospital for a whole twenty-four hours!
I get to sleep in my own bed and spend time with my friends and eat nonhospital food!
We had another family meeting this afternoon. Well, Willow and I had a meeting with Mom. Dad had something to do at work. I don’t know if I believe that, but I’m trying. I don’t want to be angry at anyone right now. Mom says that as long as I give her my meal plan in advance, I can come home.
Home!
DAY THIRTY-SIX: MONDAY
In morning group today, we talked about death. Not in a morbid way; more in a “how do you want to be remembered?” way. I don’t like thinking about death, but Heather made us all talk. The funny thing is, group actually made me feel better.
“What do you want written on your tombstone?” Heather leaned forward, like she was trying to stare into our souls. I crossed my arms over my stomach, like my soul was hanging out in there with my partially digested breakfast.
“‘Here lies Ali’?” Ali finally said. “‘She lived a long, long life.’”
“‘Laura lived to be one hundred and twenty.’”
“Let’s go a little deeper.” Heather adjusted her glasses. I may not like Heather, but I do like her glasses. They’re blue with gold polka dots. I wonder if Talia would approve of Heather’s frames.
“Some people have ‘Beloved Mother’ written on their tombstone,” Heather said. “Or ‘Friend.’ ‘Dear Wife.’ Some people have their occupations. Their passions. ‘Writer.’ ‘Engineer.’ ‘Dog lover.’ Some people’s just say their name.
“What do you want written on your tombstone?” Heather asked again. “‘She was skinny’? ‘She spent her life on a diet’? ‘She could have been an astronaut, the president, a concert singer, a mother, a friend … except she spent too much time counting fat grams’?”
We talked about what our eating disorder is stopping us from doing. We talked about who we can be without it. It made me realize something: every second of every day, no matter what I weigh, my life is going by.
I don’t want to waste one more second of it.
Here Lies Riley Logan, aged 102.
She lived a long, happy, and healthy life.
She was a good friend.
She was good at art. She might not have been the greatest ever, but she worked hard.
She listened and learned.
She liked to read.
She was a nice sister.
Everyone liked to be around her, because she made them feel better.
She was funny.
Those would be nice things to have on my tombstone.
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT: WEDNESDAY
To-Do List Before I Leave on Pass:
□ Go over meal plan with Caroline.
□ Make a list of “expected obstacles” with Willow.
□ Pack.
□ Draw a lot. Pick out my best portraits in case I win the raffle.
□ Calm down, because I don’t know if I can make it until Saturday night! if I can make it until Saturday night if I can make it until Saturday night if I can make it until Saturday night
DAY FORTY-ONE: SATURDAY
Willow says I can do this, but I feel like a baby getting ready to take her first steps. Emerson and Josie say they’ll help me if I wobble, but I’m the one who’s going to fall flat on her face, not them.
I don’t want to crawl forever, though. It’s only going to hold me back.
I can learn to walk.
Then I can learn to fly.
* * *
We’re in the restaurant now. This place is super dark. There are lamps over every table, but they’re dim and the rest of the restaurant is all shadowy. I don’t know how the waiters deliver their orders without tripping over something. Maybe they’ll drop my food and I won’t have to eat it. That’d be a great excuse for skipping dinner.
No! I don’t want to skip dinner. I have to eat dinner. I’m normal. Normal people eat at restaurants. They like eating at restaurants. I can totally be normal. Yep. Normal Riley, that’s me.
Emerson and Josie are in the bathroom now. Josie drank three cans of Diet Coke this afternoon and this is the second time she’s peed since we got here. She ordered another one when we got here. I had to order regular Coke.
I’m proud and annoyed at myself. I didn’t have to order regular soda. Emerson and Josie don’t know the rules, and no one at the hospital would ever find out. Even Emerson’s parents, who are sitting at a table across the room, don’t know about my meal plan.
I know, though.
My eating disorder voice is really loud out here. It’s like I was wearing headphones in the hospital—the chatter wasn’t silenced, but it was muffled. Now the world is turned to full volume.
There’s an entire section on the menu called “Skinnylicious,” which is pretty much the dumbest thing ever. I don’t want to be anything-licious. It’s all diet food and there are calories listed next to each option and I’m pretty much freaking out right now.
I forced myself to tell Emerson and Josie that I was nervous, that my brain was trying to convince me to change the meal order I had planned.
Emerson shrugged. “Then change your order. I bet everything tastes good.” Emerson doesn’t know what’s going on in my head, though. She doesn’t see the mental calculator adding up the numbers, comparing one choice to another. She doesn’t see the gears spinning so fast that all my logic and planning is going up in smoke. I don’t care about the taste. I care about the fact that I can’t stop seeing those Skinnylicious calories in my head, even though I turned the page. They’ll be there forever, like the Sharpie unicorn I drew on the kitchen wall when I was six.
Then Josie surprised me. “You planned something with your nutritionist, right?”
I nodded. I knew that if I talked, I’d cry.
“Is it on the menu?”
I nodded again. I pointed to the third page. “There.”
“Then order that.”
It sounded so simple. Maybe it was so simple.
“Do you want me to order it, too?” Josie asked.
Maybe Josie does understand. Well, as much as anyone without an eating disorder can understand.
“You don’t have to.” She shouldn’t have to. I know that I need to learn how to eat in the real world. I know that people won’t always be ordering the same meals as me.
“I want to,” Josie said.
“And if we eat it, you’ll know it’s okay,” Emerson said. “Yummy, too!”
I felt like a baby, but maybe I am a baby when it comes to eating. At least I don’t have to eat pureed carrots.
We all ordered from the non-Skinnylicious menu. And you know what? It was yummy.
* * *
Emerson and Josie wanted to dress up for tonight, even though we had no idea what the dress code was. Or what professional artists wear. They could wear funky T-shirts with pictures of superheroes on them or satin ball gowns with stilettos. We went for something in-between.
“Skirts!” Emerson pulled a bunch out of her closet. Mom had dropped me off right from the hospital, after making me promise a billion times that I’d “follow the rules.”
“Dresses, too!” Josie had brought some of her clothes over. Mom had packed up some of my old stuff, too.
“We need to look older. Professional.”
Josie nodded. “So the famous people take us seriously.”
I didn’t want to dress up, but they convinced me with squeals and music and an impromptu dance party. With makeup, too. I took it off right after I looked in the mirror, though. I had so much eye shadow on that I looked like a purple raccoon. I felt fake.
I don’t want to be fake anymore.
What I wanted to do was wear my sweatpants and fuzzy socks, like I’ve been doing for the last two months. I didn’t want to try to squeeze into my old clothes. I knew nothing would fit, and I was right. My favorite dress was too tight in the hips. None of my jeans zipped or buttoned. My shirts squeezed me like a hug. I ended up borrowing something of Josie’s. Her clothes didn’t feel strange, either. They fit. They were comfortable. They were right for my new body. I felt confident.
So why am I hiding in a bathroom stall right now? Why did I run out of the art show?
I told Emerson and Josie I had to pee. I almost asked them for permission. Then when I did pee, I had to stop myself from counting out loud. I would have totally scared the lady in the stall next to me. She’s gone now, though. She washed her hands and left. I’m still here. It’s quiet and peaceful, even if it does smell like that gross lemon air freshener that gives me a headache.
There are so many people out there. Kids with perfect posture who strut around like they’ve won every award in the world. Kids with cool clothes who probably sweat creativity. Adults with shiny shoes and pictures hung in shiny frames. There are signs pointing to ceramics classes upstairs and still-life classes downstairs, acrylics down one wing and metalwork down another.
I want to try everything.
I want to hand my portfolio to every teacher who walks by.
I want to hide my portfolio forever.
We pooled our money so I could buy twenty entries into the raffle. I want to win, but what if it turns out that I’m talentless and pathetic? I’d have to give up drawing then, and I need to draw. It’s the one thing that makes me feel normal. It’s the only thing I have left.
DAY FORTY-TWO: SUNDAY
Home.
My bedroom’s the same. Same purple-and-yellow flowered comforter. Same collection of photos thumbtacked to my bulletin board. Same Lumpy McLumpykins propped against my pillow. I hugged him right away. I really should have brought him to treatment. I thought the other girls would laugh at a stuffed koala bear, but Ali has her stuffed monkey, Mr. Goober, and Meredith has a platypus.
Mom’s making breakfast downstairs. I smelled it the second my alarm went off. Willow told me to set it for seven, so I wouldn’t sleep through breakfast. I have to eat three meals at home today. Two snacks, too. (I’ll be back at the hospital for evening snack.)
I smell pancakes and bacon. I haven’t had either in ages. My chest feels tight every time I think about eating breakfast with my family. What if they stare at me the whole time? What if I eat too much? What if Mom does that thing she used to do where she smears butter all over my food and hopes I don’t notice?
She’s not supposed to do that now. I’m supposed to be responsible for myself.
I proved I can do that last night. I even got frozen yogurt after the art show—I ordered a small cup and ate it all, even though the portion size was massive. It was yummy and I wanted more. So I ate more. I listened to my body. It was pretty cool. (Skinnylicious is still a ridiculous word, though.)
I proved I could ignore my eating disorder. Because that’s who I realized was talking to me in that bathroom. Ed (or whatever that voice is) had disguised his voice to sound like me. I let down my guard. I forgot for a second that I’m an awesome person and a good artist. That I have friends.
I didn’t 100 percent believe all that stuff, but I told myself it was true. Like Brenna tells (told?) herself that she’s happy. Then I marched out of the bathroom and joined my friends. People smiled at me. Other kids talked to me and I learned tons of new stuff, stuff that I might want to keep learning about.
Last night I didn’t worry. Last night I ate. This morning is different, though. This morning I’m afraid of eating with my family. I’m afraid of what they’ll do. Of what they won’t do.
There’s a big breakfast waiting for me downstairs, like a present I didn’t ask for. Like a package of underwear or a stocking full of coal. I keep telling myself things will be okay, but I don’t believe a word of it. I have a meal plan to follow, but I don’t want to follow it.
Mom just yelled up. Time to go downstairs.
Help.
* * *
“I thought this was your favorite breakfast.” Mom’s fork hovered over her plate. Julia and Dad had taken three pancakes each, slathered butter on them, and dumped a bucketful of syrup on top. Mom had taken two and left them naked, then decorated her plate with strawberries and blueberries. I did the same.
It was apparently the wrong move.
“It is my favorite breakfast.” I pointed to my plate. “I’m eating it.” I’d even asked for a yogurt for extra protein. I followed my meal plan exactly, but that wasn’t enough for Mom.
“You don’t want more than two pancakes? I made extra to make today special.” Mom bit her lip. Julia looked up with that “oh boy, here we go again” expression on her face. Dad kept stuffing food into his face.
“It is special.” I started cutting up my pancakes. “You’re eating two, too. I’m fine.”
“Let me see your meal plan again.” Mom put her hand out.
I shook my head. “I already showed you.” Mom looked at it so long last night I thought she was cramming for a test. And I knew Caroline had e-mailed it to her. My mother didn’t need to see it again. Not here. Not while I was eating.
“Don’t you need butter? Are you skipping your fats group?” Mom’s voice rose, like I was a teenager who’d stayed out past curfew.
“Mom! I was just about to ask for it.”
I think I was. Yeah, I totally was going to ask for the butter on my own. I would have. Really. I only needed a certain amount, though, so I asked Mom for the measuring spoons. That’s what was on my meal plan. No more and no less. I asked her for the measuring cups, too, for the syrup.
Dad finally looked up. “This again, Riley?” He sighed. “Just dump on some syrup. It’s not going to kill you.”
It is going to kill me.
No
, it’s not. It’s just butter. Just syrup.
It’s sugar and fat and calories and you’re going to get sooooooo fat.
No, I’m not. Being fat isn’t a bad thing anyway.
Plus, Caroline said this breakfast is fine.
She said so. But she could be lying.
The voices in my head roared to life, sending me onto the highway of self-doubt. Pinpricks of fear danced across my skin. I wanted to run away, but I tried deep breathing instead. In, out. In, out.
“I can’t ‘dump on syrup,’ Dad. I have a meal plan.”
“I don’t think they’ll care if you eat more.” Dad laughed, like everything was a big joke. Like he hadn’t been in the family meeting when Willow said how hard recovery was.
Maybe recovery is a big joke to them. Because Mom and Dad aren’t changing. At least Julia is acting normally. She even skipped gymnastics this morning to spend time with me.
“Recovery isn’t something I can improvise, Dad. I need structure first. I need to get my food confidence back.” That’s what Willow told me. That’s why after discharge I’ll have therapist and nutritionist and doctor’s appointments all the time. Why I have to make a daily schedule for myself. It’s like in musicals: actors need weeks and weeks of rehearsals with the script before they can do the show on their own. They need practice before opening night.
I definitely don’t know my lines yet.
“We’ll help you, right, Julia? Food is good!” Mom took a bite of a strawberry. A really small bite. Then a sip of her water. Her noncaloric water.
Julia’s eyes darted between us. “Sure.” Her face sent me a silent apology.
“I need the measuring cups and spoons,” I repeated.
“But I thought you were better now.” Mom’s voice was a whisper.
I didn’t meet Mom’s eyes. I looked out the window instead. At the garden bed in the side yard. At the black squirrel running across our yard, the one who comes back every year. At the fence Julia and I had painted when we were little. Dad didn’t trust us with real paint, so he’d given us paintbrushes and cans full of milk, so our mistakes wouldn’t matter.
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