by Juliette Fay
A moment later Alder came padding into the kitchen. When she saw the flush in Dana’s cheeks, her eyebrows flicked up a fraction of an inch. Dana grabbed the sponge and began wiping the clean countertop. “I hope I didn’t wake you, sweetie,” she said, following her industrious hand as it moved down the Formica.
“No, I wasn’t sleeping.” Alder took out a glass and ran the water, holding a finger under the stream to gauge the temperature. “I was thinking about last night. I kind of freaked you out.”
“Well, I’ve seen people high before,” said Dana, slightly put off by the idea that Alder might think her a complete innocent. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”
“I told Jet—”
Jet, thought Dana. That’s the girl’s name.
“I told her I’m not getting high anymore. I have to keep clear about things.” She took another sip of water. “Oh, and also it bugged you. Which is totally understandable and all.”
“Okay, well . . . that’s good,” said Dana, not missing the fact that Alder didn’t seem terribly motivated by her aunt’s concern over the matter. “There are so many nice kids to spend time with, honey. I’m sure you can find some who aren’t into drugs.”
“Jet’s not into drugs. We just wanted to . . . I don’t even know. It was there, and we smoked it. But I’m not doing it anymore, and she said she won’t either.” Alder’s gaze became more purposeful as she looked at her aunt. “She’s the only friend I have right now. I’m not ditching her just because we did something stupid one time.”
“It sounds like. . .” Dana hesitated, “. . . maybe you’re interested in being more than friends.”
Alder pinched her lips together, but a little grin popped out all the same. “Actually,” she said, “this is so lame, but we kind of got our signals crossed on that one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jet’s not one of those kids people, like, notice. Or if they do, it’s not in a good way. I guess she was surprised I wanted to hang out with her, and she thought . . .” Alder let out a little chuckle. “She thought I was . . . you know . . . into her. So she kissed me. And I kissed her back because . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought it was worth a try.”
“But if she’s not gay, why would she . . . ?”
The amusement on Alder’s face faded. “People want to be liked. They do things or go along with stuff because they’re afraid they’ll get shut out if they don’t.” The pale green of her eyes seemed darker, like clouded sea glass. Then she shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for, you know, hanging in there. I’ll keep it together better from now on.” Alder gave her a quick hug and went back to bed.
The wind had kept up all day, and Dana could hear the creaking of tree branches out in the yard. Suddenly there was a crack followed by a resounding thump. She parted the curtain and looked out. At the edge of the yard near the streetlight lay a large amputated bough. Nature’s pruning, her mother would have said. At least now Dana didn’t have to pay a landscaping company to come and trim it; the wind had done it for her. A free service, she realized. The only one I’m likely to get.
CHAPTER 14
KENNETH WAS UP IN THE STANDS WHEN THEY GOT to Grady’s football game the next morning. He didn’t usually come when it wasn’t his weekend with the kids, so Dana suspected that last night’s phone call had made an impression.
She wasn’t responsible for recording the minimum play requirements; Amy Koljian, Timmy the quarterback’s mother, had been given the duty. But when Dana walked Grady over to the sidelines and adjusted his helmet, Coach Ro came and stood beside her, remarking on how lucky they were that the clouds had cleared and the field had dried out. A perfect day for football. “Hope it’s this nice next weekend,” he murmured, nudging her conspiratorially.
Dana smiled and nodded, hoping that Amy Koljian hadn’t picked up on Coach’s secretive tone. Or the fact that he was standing just a little too close. Avoiding his gaze, Dana fussed with Grady’s helmet strap. “Okay, honey, I’ll be right up in the stands.”
Grady spit out his mouth guard. “With Dad?” he asked. Coach Ro stiffened.
“And Morgan. Yes, I’ll be up there with both of them.” She glanced briefly at Coach, “Have a good game!” she chimed and strode quickly away.
“How come Alder gets to stay home and I have to come?” Morgan whined as soon as Dana was seated next to her.
“She’s still catching up on all the work she’s missed, honey, I told you that. And you come to Grady’s games—just like he goes to your concerts—because we’re a family. We support one another.” Dana had given this speech so many times it came out as if it were prerecorded. Besides, she was distracted by Kenneth, sitting on Morgan’s opposite side, clutching with the hems of his jacket sleeves as if he were undergoing a Senate inquiry.
“I couldn’t care less if he comes to my concerts,” insisted Morgan. “In fact, I’d prefer if he didn’t. You always sit up front, and I can see him chewing on his shirt collar or picking his nose, and it makes me mess up. I swear, I would actually play better if you left him at home!”
“Morgan, please. Enough.”
“Dad, do you think this is fair? Grady doesn’t even know I’m here. He can barely see through the bars in the stupid helmet. He probably can’t tell if you’re here either.”
“He knows we’re here, Morgan,” said Kenneth. “And don’t fight with your mother about it.”
Morgan let out a frustrated groan. “Can I at least get a hot chocolate?”
Kenneth pulled some bills from his wallet and said, “Get some for Mom and me, too.”
“I don’t care for any, thanks,” said Dana. When was the last time he’d bought her a fattening beverage like hot chocolate? He always assumed she wanted diet soda or bottled water.
“Something else, then?” he asked.
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
Morgan glanced at her mother. Then she made her way down the sparsely populated stands, hopping from one seat to the next.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Kenneth said quickly. “That was not . . . There was no intention to . . .”
Dana stared straight ahead. “I’m very concerned about Morgan,” she murmured. There was no one sitting near them, but she kept her voice low anyway. Kenneth leaned toward her, sliding a few inches closer on the bench.
“Why?” he said. Worry swelled in his voice, but Dana knew there was relief, too, for the change in subject matter. She gave a brief synopsis: the eroded enamel, the bingeing on cake, the evidence of vomit in the bathroom, and, most important, Morgan’s lack of denial.
“How are you going to handle it?” Kenneth asked.
“How are we going to handle it,” she corrected him. “I’m not the only parent here, Kenneth.”
“I know that,” he grumbled. “I just meant that you always seem to have a plan. You’re good at figuring these things out.”
He thinks I’m good at this? Dana let that sink in a moment. “I’m going to call the school counselor tomorrow. And Dr. Sakimoto gave me a list of resources. But we have to work together on this. Don’t go getting distracted by the rest of your life.”
“Of course not!” he retorted. Morgan was starting to make her way up the stands toward them. “You just need to keep me up to speed. That’s all I’m asking. I’m her father,” he added.
“Yes, I know,” muttered Dana.
Morgan stepped up to their bench holding two Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate and handed her father one. “Can you shove over a little?” she said, taking her former spot between her parents. She held out the other cup to Dana. “We can share,” she said. “You have the first sip.”
The next morning, after the kids left, Dana called the middle school and asked to speak to the guidance counselor, Mr. Kresgee. “I’m Morgan Stellgarten’s mom? She’s in sixth grade?”
“Oh, yes, Morgan, yes.” His voice had a nasal twang to it. “I haven’t clicked with that crop of kiddos yet—they’ve only been here a month. B
ut I will. I have a knack for it.”
Dana wasn’t sure what to make of his self-proclaimed knack, but she soldiered on, telling him her concerns. It hurt just to say the words, but Mr. Kresgee responded with avuncular kindness. “There’s quite a number of kiddos with this problem,” he said. “I’ll invite her for a little heart-to-heart, and we’ll see where she’s at.”
When Dana hung up the phone, she felt a sense of dread. She’d just told a stranger that her daughter had an eating disorder. He’s a professional, she reminded herself. He knows what to do a lot better than I do.
Reluctantly she pulled out the sheet Dr. Sakimoto had given her, titled simply “Resources.” Subheadings included “Orthodontia,” “Dental Anxiety,” and “Other Important Concerns.” She poured a glass of sugar-free lemonade, went into Kenneth’s office—her office, she reminded herself—and started with the National Eating Disorders Association Web site, clicking around, following links to new sites as well.
“Bulimia is a cyclical pattern of behaviors, rather than just one action,” declared one Web site. “In a typical scenario, the bulimic’s shame about her body causes her to restrict food intake. But eventually her hunger grows so strong that she overeats, sometimes several thousand calories at a time. The shame at having lost control and the anxiety about gaining weight make her desperate to undo her actions, so she purges. In the short term, it makes her feel better, but eventually the purging also causes shame and anxiety, creating a tension that drives her to overeat again.”
Shame, Dana realized. It’s all about shame. The thought bounced around her brain like a pinball, ricocheting against sore spots she barely knew she had.
Another Web site explained, “Bulimics aren’t always thin. The huge intake of calories during bingeing can be partially offset by purging, but it is a relatively inefficient means of weight loss.”
She clicked on the link to a page of suggestions for parents. The first point seemed to blink out at her from the screen: “Be aware of your feelings about your own body. Don’t communicate dissatisfaction with your shape to your children. This leads them to believe they should be self-critical, too.” Dana was certainly dissatisfied with her shape, as well as several other of her physical attributes. She didn’t talk about it—why bore others with your insecurities? But had she somehow “communicated” this dissatisfaction to Morgan? Morgan was a perceptive girl; how was Dana supposed to counteract this subtle transference of information? Sing her own praises? Lie?
At lunchtime she went into the kitchen and microwaved a potato, careful as always not to take too much butter. But from what she had read that morning, she didn’t want to “restrict” herself either. Where’s the line? she wondered. How much is enough but not too much?
Dana was scrubbing a hardened spill of applesauce in the refrigerator when Morgan came home from school, saying, “. . . so annoying how she’s like OHMYGOD every ten seconds, like everything on the planet needs an exclamation point or something.”
“I know.” This second voice wasn’t immediately recognizable. “Most stuff is so boring it’s not even worth mentioning.”
“Just throw your jacket on the bench,” said Morgan. “We’re supposed to hang them up, but we never do.” The girls came into the kitchen. “Mom,” said Morgan with a look of veiled pride, “this is Kimmi.”
“Of course!” Dana said brightly. Morgan narrowed her eyes. Dana dialed back her smile. “From the party. How are you?”
“Fine,” said Kimmi. “How are you?” Dana noticed that she held her lips slightly parted, which had the effect of sucking in her cheeks.
“Are you girls hungry?” Dana asked, immediately second-guessing herself. Should food be the first thing she mentioned? Probably not. And yet the Web sites said to promote healthy eating . . .
“Um,” said Morgan, waiting for Kimmi’s response.
“No thanks,” Kimmi said. “I don’t really like to eat between meals.”
“Let’s go up to my room,” said Morgan, and the girls headed for the stairs.
A moment later the phone rang.
“Uh, hi . . . Is this the . . . Is this where . . . I’m looking for Alder Garrett. Is she, you know . . . there?” The voice was low and full, but the stammering made him sound as if he were about fourteen. Dana grinned. It was cute, this young man’s nervousness. Maybe he was calling to ask Alder for a date. Maybe now she would stop hanging around with Jet, the pot smoker.
“She’s not home from school yet,” she told him. “Can I take your name and have her call you back?”
“Oh.” The caller took a moment to consider what to do next, letting out a prizewinning string of “uh”s and “um”s. Finally he decided to employ some actual words. “Did she ever get a cell phone?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Dana.
“Stubborn.” He chuckled to himself. “Okay, yeah. Could you tell her E called? It’s Ethan really, but she calls me E. And, um . . . could you tell her—ask her—to call me?”
“She has your number?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, though Dana wasn’t sure whether it was happy or sad. “She knows it by heart.”
Dana prepared dinner that night as if dieticians, rather than children, would be eating it. She broiled fillet of sole, topped with a smattering of butter and bread crumbs—with doubtful hope she had chosen the most eating-disorder-aware quantities of each. She also made brown rice, spinach salad, steamed green beans, and glazed carrots.
“What’s with all the vegetables?” Morgan asked.
“Just trying to eat healthy,” said Dana. “Have as much as you want.”
“That’s easy,” said Grady. “I’ll have zero.”
“Grady,” Dana said wearily, “you don’t have to eat a whole serving, but at least please have a bite.”
He snorted. “Why?”
“Because . . .”
“Because why?”
“Because you’ll never know if you like something if you don’t try it.” Dana could feel her voice getting tight. “And because I worked hard to make this meal—the least you could do is show a little gratitude.”
“But I don’t like it. Why should I be all gratitudey for stuff I don’t even like?”
Before Dana could answer, Alder claimed the airspace over the table. “ There’s this kid at school who skateboards everywhere. I mean, like, everywhere. The thing’s practically glued to his feet.”
Grady looked over at her, suspicious but interested. “Really?”
“No lie.” Alder took a big bite of sole. She glanced at Dana, nodding her appreciation.
“What can he do?” challenged Grady.
“All kinds of stuff.” She took in a forkful of green beans and let out a little grunt of approval.
“Can he land a seven-twenty?”
“What, when they spin around twice? I don’t know. Maybe. Jet says he hangs out at Glastonbury Skate Park. Maybe when I get my car fixed, I’ll take you to watch him sometime.”
“That’d be sick,” murmured Grady.
“Eat a green bean and I’ll get you a peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich.” Alder looked over at Dana for confirmation that this would be acceptable. Dana shrugged her consent. She had made too much of it, she could see that now. Trying to do the right thing, she had done precisely the wrong thing.
Grady reached for the green bean Alder held out. He made a face as he chewed. “Disgusting,” he said, and swallowed it.
When Alder returned to the table with the sandwich, Dana insisted, “At least say thank you.”
He simpered in a high voice, “Thank you, Alder.”
“Welcome, G,” she simpered back.
“Oh, Alder, that reminds me,” said Dana. “Someone called for you. Ethan, but you call him E?” She pressed the back of her fork against some stray bread crumbs. “He wants you to call.”
Alder stopped chewing. Her elbows clamped in at her sides as if to buttress her ribs. She swallowed the lump of food in her mouth. “What’d he want?�
�
Dana puzzled at Alder’s reaction. “He didn’t say.”
Staring down at her plate, Alder shook her head. “Anyone want these carrots?” she asked. “I took too much.”
CHAPTER 15
AT BEDTIME DANA WENT UP TO MORGAN’S ROOM. She wanted to ask if Mr. Kresgee had had his promised “heart-to-heart,” but she didn’t want to open a can of worms prematurely. She would wait until he called, or until Morgan brought it up.
Morgan sat back against the pillows, studying a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine. “Where’d that come from?” Dana asked as she sat down on the bed.
“Kimmi brought it over. Her mom has a subscription.”
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” Dana warned. “Cosmo runs some pretty racy articles.”
“All that sex stuff? That’s for freaks. We just like the fashions.” Morgan flipped through the thick, glossy pages. “Like here,” she said, laying the tome out before her mother, smoothing the paper reverently. “See how these jeans are cut way low but they don’t make her hips look big? Kimmi says they’re really flattering. I definitely want a pair of these!”
Dana studied the picture. The young model was impossibly thin, yet not emaciated. Her full breasts seemed to be trying to escape the scant tank top, and her arms were narrow but toned with sinewy muscle. How could anyone look this good? “Honey,” said Dana, “I’m sure this girl is pretty in real life, but I have to guess this photo’s been touched up.”
Morgan studied the picture again. “No,” she countered. “She’s just super skinny.”
“Yes, but think about it—do you know anyone who looks like this?” Dana summoned facts she’d just learned from “Photoshopping Us into a Panic: How the Media Tricks Us into Hating Ourselves,” an article she’d read online. “With computers now they can make a girl thinner or tanner or make her eyes bluer with a few keystrokes. There probably isn’t a photo in here that hasn’t been altered in some way.”
