What I Lost

by Alexandra Ballard

  But I’d had one. The best one.

  I’d gone out with Charlie for the first time nearly four months earlier, one week after school let out for summer, back when life was still relatively normal.

  On that day in June, Charlie showed up at Scoops, the ice cream shop where I worked, wearing his board shorts, his hair still damp from the beach. When he asked me out, I’d thought he was kidding. Me? The Scoops girl? I didn’t even belong to the country club. He ordered a blueberry ice cream cone, crammed five dollars in my tip jar, slid a piece of paper with his number on it across the counter, and told me he’d seen me at a couple of his lacrosse games. I’d only been at them because Shay had a crush on a midfielder. I hated lacrosse. But of course I didn’t say that. I just blushed. When he asked me for my number, I wrote it on a napkin.

  He texted me later that afternoon.

  That night we went to Kelly’s Roast Beef, a local takeout place open late that was always crammed with rowdy kids stuffing their faces with shakes and sandwiches. I usually avoided it. Everything Kelly’s served was fried, or came from a cow, or was slathered with mayonnaise. I hadn’t eaten anything like that since before the whole Target bikini incident.

  Normally, the idea of taking a bite of a roast beef sandwich or a sip of chocolate shake would send me into a massive panic. But that night, even though I’d already eaten my usual dinner—one banana, sliced in half lengthwise and cut again into twenty half slices, which I ate from a toothpick, one half moon at a time—something was different.

  Here’s what I ate:

  1. One-third of a Junior Beef sandwich, no mayo or cheese

  2. Five fries, two dipped in ketchup

  3. Two small tastes of Charlie’s coffee shake

  4. Four sips of regular—not diet—Coke, because Charlie messed up when he ordered for me and I didn’t want him to feel bad.

  What was amazing was that when we were finished I didn’t even feel full. In fact, I felt better than I had in months. I’d expected that I’d at least get a stomachache from all those calories, but it was magic, like my entire body was saying, This is the guy for you. And the night just kept getting better. After dinner, Charlie drove me to the beach in front of his house. He played Bob Marley, “No Woman, No Cry,” a song that Katrina and I had decided made us want to hold hands with boys. And as the song was playing, like he’d read my mind, Charlie held my hand. When we got out of the car, the moon was bright and I could see his house stretching behind a thick wall of shrubs that bordered the beach. It looked even bigger in the moonlight. Houses like that cost millions.

  We’d just stepped onto the sand when he pulled me toward him and kissed me. His touch was soft and his mouth tasted like french fries. I only worried for a second about potential calorie transfers. When he pulled his salty lips away from mine, my body buzzed. When he took off his shirt and ran, whooping and hollering, into the dark, rolling ocean, I realized that I really liked him. And when he came back a minute later, shivering and dripping and with goose bumps on his skin, I realized that, amazingly, he might like me, too. He kissed me again and everything in the world was perfect: the air, the night, the beach, even me.

  10

  I had my first session with Mary that same morning. Mary’s office was in the therapy wing. Her cinder-block walls were painted a soothing cream color. Everything at Wallingfield was painted soothing colors. It actually said that in the brochure Mom had slipped under my door the day they announced I was coming here. Wallingfield’s soothing decor, it read, as if we were all a bunch of maniacs who might fall into hysterics if we came face-to-face with a rainbow pillow or hot-pink wall.

  The brass ring hung on its satin ribbon beneath my clothes, swaying gently as I walked, a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was thinking of me. I only wished I could be 100 percent sure it was Charlie.

  Mary’s hair was twisted into a bun, and she wore a black maxiskirt and matching tights, a bulky navy-blue cardigan, a long-sleeved matching navy blouse, and scuffed brown clogs. I could hear Mom’s voice in my head: Black and blue make a bruise! Apparently Mary hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “Good morning, Elizabeth.” Mary’s voice was different from the other day. It sounded the way therapists’ voices always sound on TV. Smooth, calming, and, just like the walls, soothing.

  She leaned forward a little, gripping a notepad on her lap. “Since this is our first session, I thought maybe we could start off with you telling me a little bit about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, anything that might help me understand what brought you to Wallingfield, and how I might help you while you are here.”

  “You mean like my life story?”

  “If you think that would help.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how about we start with your relationship with your parents. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about them, and you.”

  “Well, my mom likes it when I’m thin. Dad is clueless. We have no pets, and I’m an only child. Mom wasn’t able to have any more kids after me. I don’t know why. Something about my birth, I think. And I’m here, obviously, so there’s that. Although, for the record, I do think that I’d be fine at home.” I paused.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s about it.” I sat back. Her turn.

  “Okay. Can you say a little more about your mom? You said she likes you thin. Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  She pushed harder. “Okay. Why?”

  Why? Because she said so. But I couldn’t tell Mary that. Not yet. Not until I knew how she’d take it. My mom wasn’t a bad person. She just had expectations. Or, rather, hopes. That’s it. She had hopes for me.

  Hopes for my appearance, anyway. I realized just how high those hopes were last month, when Mom texted me and said she was leaving work early to pick me up from school to “hang with you and chill.” Her words, not mine. Since I wasn’t running cross-country anymore and my brain moved at the speed of sludge those days, I couldn’t think of an excuse in time to get out of it.

  I figured we’d have a quick coffee somewhere so Mom could check mother-daughter time off her weekly to-do list.

  Instead, she surprised me. “We’re going to Macy’s!” she proclaimed. “I’m in the mood for some retail therapy.”

  “No, Mom, I don’t feel like it. Can we just get a latte or something?” I hated Macy’s. The clothes never looked good on me. Few if any of the outfits Mom had made me try on over the years “suited my figure,” as Mom liked to say. Even so, she was relentless. She’d toss shirts and skirts and jeans and dresses over the top of the dressing room door, only to frown and look disappointed when I put them on. I’d taken to using Mom’s credit card and shopping online, so I could have the clothes delivered to me and try them on alone, in my room.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  I’d never admit it, but a part of me was curious. I’d lost a lot of weight. Like, thirty pounds. Maybe things would be different now. “Fine. Let’s go to Macy’s.”

  “Yes!” Mom threw the car into drive and pulled out onto the street. “So, how was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “How’s work going?” I asked, to be polite.

  “Great,” she said. “Things are going really well.”

  After that we rode in silence. I pulled out my phone and texted Katrina.

  Me: Shopping with Mom. Pray for me.

  The typing indicator raced back and forth as she responded.

  Katrina: Yikes! Good luck!!!! Talk later?

  Me: If I make it back alive.

  I put my phone in the front pocket of my backpack and squeezed the bag to my chest.

  Macy’s loomed, big and boxy. Mom parked right in front. “Isn’t this fun?” she said, gathering up her Coach purse, the one she’d bought used on eBay. “You and me—shopping, hanging out. This is great!�
� We entered the store through the makeup department.

  You’ve never thought it was great before, I thought, dragging my feet. Our shopping trips usually led to horrible fights where I begged her to leave me alone and she told me that if I let her dress me, I’d look great. You just have to purchase the right clothes for your figure, she’d say. You don’t have the right body for the juniors’ department. But the juniors’ department was where all my friends shopped, and I wanted to shop there, too. And sometimes the things she hated on me, I didn’t think looked that bad. Until she pointed out the flaws—my hips, my thighs, my chubby knees.

  But today I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want a fight. I just wanted to get this trip over with.

  In front of Clinique, Mom said, “I love Macy’s!” and hugged me for no reason. Our collarbones clanked, bone on bone.

  She took a deep, appreciative inhale. “Doesn’t it smell good in here?”

  I shrugged. I was starting to sweat. I think I had PTSD—post-traumatic shopping disorder. Over the last couple of years, stints in Macy’s dressing rooms had taught me that, according to Mom, skinny jeans, low-rise jeans, high-rise jeans, boyfriend jeans, pencil skirts, long skirts, baggy sweaters, tight sweaters, yoga pants—basically anything made of semi-fashionable fabric—didn’t “suit” me.

  But I hadn’t been this thin since, well, forever. I fingered my hip bones, which stuck out like handles. I liked how the skin was still bruised from lying stomach-down on our deck all summer.

  Even so, I tiptoed through the juniors’ department’s racks of clothes, avoiding contact like they’d sting me if I touched them.

  “Try these.” Mom held up a pair of forest-green skinny jeans.

  I loved them for anyone except me. My thighs would never fit in those. You needed a thigh gap for those. I didn’t have a thigh gap. The tops of my thighs refused to separate. They were like two sausages stuffed tight in a package. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on, Elizabeth. Try them on. I bet you’ll look great.” Mom grabbed my arm and looked straight at me. “You know you don’t look the same anymore. I bet you’ll be surprised.”

  “Fine.” I grabbed them and without a word marched into the dressing room.

  I’d always been a size 29. She’d picked a size 28. Too small for sure. But I was swimming in them. Mom went back out for a size 27, and then a 26. Then, a 25. She was giddy. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she said. “Size twenty-five! That’s like a size zero!”

  Size 25. Even though I knew my body had tons of problems, I couldn’t help but be proud. Size 25. Size 0. I’d never been a size 0. A few more pounds and who knew? Maybe I could have shopped in the kids’ department.

  Only later that day, alone in my room, did I wonder if Mom was at all worried about my weight loss. Did I want her to be? Losing 30 pounds in four months wasn’t good for me, was it?

  Yes, I scolded myself. It was. It was very good for me.

  “Elizabeth?” Mary waved her hand gently in front of my face. “May I ask what you were just thinking about?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.” I’d brought those jeans with me, but with the way the nurses were making me eat, I wondered how long they’d fit.

  I wondered what Mom would say when they didn’t.

  11

  At noon, I found Lexi leaning against the wall in the lunch line, wearing gray sweatpants with holes in the knees and a faded black sweatshirt. She looked as beaten down as her outfit. Even her hair sagged.

  She’d endured individual therapy that morning as well. Her therapist’s name was Michael. A guy. I felt bad that she didn’t get a girl, but she said she didn’t care. “It’s not like I’m going to tell him anything anyway,” she’d said. When we’d parted ways at Michael’s door, she’d winked at me, but now she was subdued and dark.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She opened her mouth to respond but didn’t get a chance.

  “This is ridiculous!” A girl’s voice came from the dining room, loud and stressed.

  Everybody turned to look.

  “I don’t understand why I can’t have it! I barely got any dinner last night, and barely any breakfast. Crackers and hummus aren’t a meal. That’s a snack! Aren’t we supposed to eat in here?”

  Willa’s eyes widened.

  “I mean, isn’t this an eating disorder hospital? I’d think you’d be glad I’m hungry. God!”

  “What the?” I mouthed to Willa, who made the universal sign for crazy with her finger near her ear. I looked away, uncomfortable. Who was I to judge crazy in this place?

  Allie turned around. “It’s Margot, the new girl who doesn’t talk. My bet is bulimic with anger issues. You guys saw her. Not eating? Definitely not her problem.”

  That was mean. We were so hard on ourselves already. And of all people, why pick on Margot? It had to suck even more to be surrounded by people who lived in fear of looking like you.

  “Seriously, WHY CAN’T I HAVE SOMETHING ELSE?” Margot shouted louder. She sounded desperate.

  “Well,” Lexi said, her voice still flat, “looks like she can definitely talk.”

  Coral tiptoed over to the double doors and cracked them open. This felt wrong. We were invading Margot’s privacy. Even so, I couldn’t stop watching. From where I stood I could see Margot’s top half. Worry lines snaked across her pasty forehead. Her dull, unwashed brown ponytail was askew. Her arms looked pale and doughy. I wished I had the courage to run up and close the door. Instead, I just stood like a coward and watched with everybody else.

  Kay had her back to us. “Margot, we serve healthy meals here. If you’re hungry, you can take it up with your nutritionist when you have your first meeting. But until then—”

  Margot snapped. “I AM JUST SO HUNGRY—” She stopped when she saw the open door. We ate her up with our stares. Her eyes widened and her face changed from flushed to white to reddish purple in all of five seconds.

  “Why, Margot,” Kay said, clearly stunned. “What’s wron—” She turned and, upon seeing us, moved quickly toward the door.

  Margot beat her to it. She pushed past everybody and ran down the hall to her room, slamming the door so hard the other doors on the hall shook. Two nurses followed her.

  An electric current rippled through the rest of us. Manic. Bipolar. Binger. Cutter. It didn’t take long—one minute maybe—for everyone to decide that Margot was the most screwed-up girl here.

  Willa grinned, happy things were livening up around the place.

  I stood there, unsure. A part of me wondered if I should go after her. I’d known her once, after all. I imagined knocking on her door and reintroducing myself, maybe asking her to sit with me in the dining room. But I didn’t. I just got in line for my tray like everybody else.

  At the table, Willa could barely sit still. She crammed a cracker in her mouth. “Wow! Did you see that?” Willa’s excitement took up too much room in her head; she was so keyed up that she was actually on track to eat all of her hummus and crackers.

  When I said, “I feel bad. Maybe we should go and talk to her after lunch,” no one answered me.

  Lexi played with her hummus, spooning it up and dropping it back onto her plate, over and over.

  “Lexi,” I asked, “how are you doing?”

  “Fine.” Her voice was curt. She sniffed her hummus and grimaced.

  “You sure? No offense, but you don’t really seem fine.”

  “I am. Really.”

  “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She softened just a little. “I’m just tired.” Her dark hair accented the half circles under her eyes. She looked like a member of the Addams Family. I guessed it was because of her evening workouts. That and all the Ensure.

  I was having my own issues. I’d run out of crackers. “Willa, do they expect us to eat the hummus plain?”

  “If you already ate your crackers they do,” she said. “Do you think Margot will freak out at e
very meal?”

  “I hope not.” I stabbed at my plate. “I can’t eat this hummus. I don’t like hummus even with crackers.” I never had. “I can’t eat this plain. God, can you smell it? All I can smell is the garlic. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Willa put down her fork. “No, you’re not. You can do it,” she said. “You totally can. Come on, just try.”

  I made figure eights in the hummus with my fork, turning it over onto itself as if I could somehow make it less.

  Kay came over on her rounds. Lexi sat up a little, on guard. “Elizabeth, Lexi, finish your hummus, please.”

  “I can’t, Kay,” I said.

  “Yes, you can, Elizabeth.”

  My jaw stiffened like it always did when I was being stubborn. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. My brain won’t let me.” The day before I’d been able to overcome it, thanks to my cheering section. But now? Now my brain wasn’t budging.

  “Elizabeth,” Kay said, “the only way to get better is to challenge those thoughts.” I shook my head. No.

  Kay sighed. It had been a long day for her already. “Lexi? How about you? I know you can do this.” Kay pulled up a chair. To both of us she said, “To get better, you have to eat.” Lexi didn’t respond. For a second I forgot about myself. What happened at her therapy session?

  “Last chance,” Kay said. She paused a second and then, with one last pat on my shoulder, headed off to get an Ensure.

  “Get her chocolate!” Willa called, her plate miraculously empty.

  Kay brought one back for Lexi, too, then sat with us, checking the floor for Willa crumbs as she did. There weren’t any. “Willa, you can go. Good job today,” she said as she opened the plastic bottles of Ensure and stuck a straw into each.

  “Thanks!” It was only after Willa had stepped off the linoleum and onto the hall carpet that I saw the cracker peeking out from the top of her jeans’ cuff.

  12