What I Lost

by Alexandra Ballard

  I didn’t answer. Wasn’t it obvious? I fought the urge to say, How do you think I’m feeling?

  “Mary,” I asked instead, tears in my eyes. “When does the pain go away?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice soft. She felt sorry for me. I could see it in her eyes. I’d been getting that look a lot before I left for Wallingfield. From teachers, random strangers, even the checkout guy at the grocery store. But after I said the story out loud, I was a little sorry for me, too. For both me and, I realized, for Charlie.

  Mary leaned over like she wanted to touch me, but she didn’t. “I don’t know when the pain will go away, Elizabeth. But I, for one, think that you are so brave. You took a chance and put yourself in a situation where you weren’t in control. That must have been incredibly scary, but you did it. Maybe it didn’t go your way, but you survived. You are strong, Elizabeth, and I think that the more you face these feelings, the more you talk about them, the less power they’ll have over you.”

  I wanted to believe her. I just didn’t know if I could.

  “Elizabeth, from what I am hearing, it sounds like Charlie was worried about you, that he stopped so that he wouldn’t hurt you, not because he wanted to.”

  I nodded. Someone knocked on the door. Mary glanced at her watch. “Elizabeth—”

  “I know,” I said. “Your appointment is here.” Then I stood up and left, leaving the door ajar behind me.

  24

  Six days post-Charlie, on a Tuesday, flowers arrived. They were the 1-800 kind, all daisies and carnations with a red teddy bear and a sagging helium balloon inscribed with Get Well Soon in rainbow bubble letters, the exact type of gift Katrina and I had laughed at. The card read, Get better, Elizabeth. —Charlie. My heart blipped once, but that was it.

  “Aren’t those nice?” Nurse Jill said, handing them to me before lunch.

  “Yes,” I said. “Very nice.”

  I waited for the Charlie jolt, the pain that came when I thought about him. But I got nothing. So I gave the flowers to Willa. She loved them.

  And then, on Friday, another package arrived. It was wrapped in brown paper, and the script was familiar. I caught my breath.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  After my phone call with Charlie, I’d just assumed the packages would stop. But why would they? They weren’t from him, remember?

  When Ray cut open the top of the box, I peered into it with him. Snuggled down beneath crumpled-up pages of the Boston Globe lay a black travel umbrella, the kind you can buy at CVS for five dollars. Tied to the handle was a note in the same handwriting: For the next big storm.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Ray slid the box back to me. “Worried about rain?” he said.

  “Not really. I have no idea why someone would send this.” I tried to think of someone, anyone, who might want to send me an umbrella. My mind came up blank.

  Ray seemed impressed. “Looks like you have a mystery to figure out.”

  “I guess.” I hustled back to my room, where I hung the little travel umbrella on a hook in my closet with the rest of the gifts, which were in a sorry state. I’d taped the poster back together. I’d collected as much sand as I could out of the trash and poured it back in the jar. I’d rescued the plastic ring and set it on my dresser.

  I’d think about this later, I told myself. With Mary.

  * * *

  “… Elizabeth? Hello? How are you feeling about today?”

  “Huh?”

  Mary shot me a questioning look. I’d arrived early for therapy and, while waiting for my session to start, had let my mind wander to my mystery. Could it be Katrina? No. Shay? Priya? One of Charlie’s friends? No, no, and no. Shay and Priya would never send me stuff like this. And Charlie’s friends cared about Charlie. When he broke up with me, they did, too. When we’d gone back to school in August, it was like I’d never existed. They ignored me again, just like they had before Charlie and I went out.

  Could it be Wyatt, the kid in Algebra II who sometimes helped me with my homework? Could it be Tuck, feeling guilty after practically killing me at the Harvest Concert? Dad?

  “Elizabeth?” I snapped back into focus. Mary was speaking to me. “Where were you right then?”

  I forced my attention back to her. “Nowhere. Here. Just thinking.”

  A week ago, I was so sure that it was Charlie. All my ideas and theories about the presents led back to him. But now that he was out of the picture and the presents were still coming, my thoughts flew around with no home base.

  “Well, if you felt nervous, I would understand.”

  Mary’s words jarred me back to her little office. “Nervous? About what?”

  “I’m just thinking back to the other day, when I told you about the family therapy session. You’d expressed some anxiety then.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Family therapy.

  Today.

  No. Not today.

  “You seem a bit caught off guard,” Mary said.

  “Yeah, well, I sort of forgot.” Every patient at Wallingfield sat through at least one individual family therapy session in addition to the group. Since my parents were at work, ours was over the phone. Mom had scheduled it; I don’t think it was an accident it was on a day they couldn’t be here in person.

  “Okay. Let’s talk for a minute about what will happen when your parents pick up the phone.”

  “They’ll tell me I just won a million dollars?” I bit a nail too far down and blood appeared. The sting focused me.

  “It’s okay to be nervous.”

  I just shrugged. “I’m not nervous. So what are we going to talk about?”

  “Well, my main goal is to help you through the conversation. I’m going to start us off by focusing on how everybody can best support you, both here and, eventually, at home. Do you have anything you want to focus on?”

  Not having the call? “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, if anything comes up that you want to discuss in private, you just write it down on this paper and I can put your parents on hold, okay?”

  “Okay.” Can we put them on hold for the whole conversation?

  “Here we go.” Mary hit dial.

  I hadn’t seen Mom since family group. Both she and Dad had called a few times over the week, but the conversations always went something like this:

  Mom/Dad: Hi, honey. How is treatment going?

  Me: Fine.

  Mom/Dad: Good to hear.

  Me: It’s been nineteen days. When can I come home?

  If Dad was calling, he’d say, Don’t rush things, Elizabeth. Take all the time you need. There’s no reason to cut and run before the treatment works, like I’d get some magic drug that would just all of a sudden kick in and cure me. When it was Mom, she’d just get irritated and say, Elizabeth, we don’t know, okay? We just don’t know.

  Now Dad picked up fast. “Hi there,” he said. His voice sounded unsure, nervous. It bothered me to hear him like that. I liked my dad sounding strong. Always.

  “Hi, Brian. It’s Mary and Elizabeth here.”

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  Mary spoke next. “I’m going to click Karen in. Just a moment, please.”

  Two clicks later and Mom was there, clearing her throat. “Hello,” she added, her voice small and far away. She sounded nervous. Like me. I pictured her at her desk, her big computer in front of her, and suddenly I was glad that we were doing this by phone.

  “Okay so far?” Mary mouthed. I nodded. Mary gave me a thumbs-up. I wasn’t so sure that would be the gesture I’d choose.

  “How are you doing?” Dad asked, his voice overly cheerful.

  “Good, Dad. I’m good.” The least I could do was lie about that, I thought.

  Then Mary dug in. When she leaned over, her shirt bloused out and her body looked barrel shaped. “Hi, Brian. So today I wanted to focus on addressing some of the issues and concerns Elizabeth has been talki
ng about over these last couple of weeks.”

  “Okay,” he said. He sounded guarded, defensive.

  “I’d like to start by talking about family support both while Elizabeth is here and when she goes home.” Mary spoke like she was telling someone where to find the bathroom. I admired her cool demeanor.

  “Sure,” Dad said hurriedly. “We’ll do anything we can.”

  “As you know, Elizabeth has been working very hard.”

  “I know she has. We are very proud,” said Dad.

  I chewed my fingernail.

  Mary cleared her throat. “Karen?”

  Mom hesitated, and then, with surprising power, “Yes?”

  “Elizabeth and I have been talking a bit about how meals go at your house. I’d be curious to hear your impression of them.”

  Mom didn’t even pause. “Well, I’m the one who cooks for all of us. We eat together every night,” she said. “I like to think that Brian and I model healthy eating habits for Elizabeth.”

  I shook my head and wrote on the pad: Mom doesn’t eat anything!!!!!

  “Karen? Elizabeth has something to say.” She smiled encouragingly at me.

  “I … I don’t know if I agree, Mom.” We were in uncharted territory now. In our house, Mom’s next-to-nothing eating was normal.

  “Karen?” Mary sounded so encouraging, like she was trying to get Mom to tell her a secret recipe or something.

  Dad jumped in, talking fast. “Karen has always been a mindful eater.”

  “Karen?” Mary asked again.

  I gripped the arms of the chair and counted the ceiling tiles. One … two … three … Stay calm, Elizabeth. Stay calm.

  “Well, Brian is right. I am cautious about what I choose to put in my body. You can’t not be these days.”

  Mary nodded. “I see. Can you describe what you mean by cautious?”

  Mom’s tone turned defensive. “Well, you know, I eat a lot of vegetables, low-fat meats, watch my carb intake—I basically don’t eat white foods.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “And why is that?”

  “White foods are processed foods, you know?”

  I looked at Mary as if to say, See!

  “Got it. Do you count calories in front of your daughter?”

  Mom paused. The silence stretched a few too many seconds. “Only to be healthy.”

  Mary switched tactics. “What will be most helpful for Elizabeth when she does eventually come home is to have parents who eat well-balanced, fulfilling dinners without worry. Ones where everybody eats the same thing. Do you feel that you can do this for her?”

  “Of course!” Mom’s confidence was back. “We do healthy already. We don’t overindulge, but we eat. We go to restaurants, enjoy our meals, et cetera. I think we’re fine in that regard.”

  But she’d never been fine. A memory of a dinner out popped into my head. I was ten. I’d ordered a cheeseburger. Mom had ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. It came with mayonnaise. By the time she’d carefully sliced off the surface of the chicken—simply scraping wouldn’t remove all the mayo, she claimed—and cut off the polluted parts of the bun, she’d had about four bites left. “Now it’s perfect!” I remember her saying. Except that then, she didn’t touch it at all. Watching her had made me self-conscious, and I’d refused to touch my burger, ashamed that I was such a pig.

  I scribbled furiously on the pad. SHE IS LYING!!!!!!

  Mary gestured for me to speak. I shook my head no. I didn’t trust myself. My heart hammered hard against my chest.

  So she spoke instead. “Elizabeth just reacted very strongly to what you said, Karen. Why do you think that is?”

  Mom paused, and then said, “Well, I have no idea. I mean, I am happy with my diet, and like I said, I’ve always encouraged Elizabeth to eat when—”

  I shook my head. No. She was lying. And Dad, by supporting her, was lying, too. When I opened my mouth I had to force the words out, and they came out softer than I wanted. “Mom,” I said, my voice catching, “you don’t encourage me. It feels like you do the opposite sometimes. When I’m with you, I get so stressed about food.”

  “Elizabeth! Why would you say such a—”

  “Mom, other kids’ moms, they don’t seem to care if their kids have ice cream sometimes. Like, I’ve never seen a mom tell their kid they could only get the frozen yogurt.” I paused, took a deep breath, and then I said it. I went where no Barnes had ever gone before. “Um … I could be wrong or projecting or something, but I sort of think that maybe you think about food a little too much.”

  In sixth grade, Mom had plucked a bowl of ice cream out of my hands. “Your metabolism can’t handle so many sweets,” she’d said apologetically as she jammed the scoops of melting mint chocolate chip down the roaring disposal with my spoon. At the time I didn’t get it. Ashamed of my appetite, I burst into tears. Mom thought I was crying because I wanted more ice cream. All the other girls in my class ate ice cream. Was my metabolism different from theirs?

  Mom sniffed in the background. Great. I’d made her cry.

  “Elizabeth, let’s be kind. Your mom sounds pretty upset!” Dad’s voice sliced through me as he took her side, like always.

  “Dad, do you think I’m wrong?” My breath quivered.

  Mary popped in, unruffled, like we were discussing the weather. “So, Brian, Elizabeth has brought a lot of emotion into the conversation. What do you—”

  Suddenly I felt left out. Mom and Dad always took each other’s side. But who was taking mine? I didn’t want to talk to anybody. What was the point, really? “I need to go,” I whispered.

  “Brian, Karen, one minute please,” Mary said quickly, hitting the hold button.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here. I can’t do this right now. I just can’t—”

  “Elizabeth, we are just getting into—”

  I stood up. The office felt tiny, almost nauseatingly small. “I can’t talk to them anymore.” The pillow in my lap fell to the floor. I left it there.

  Mary hit the hold button again. “Karen, Brian,” she said. “Elizabeth would like a break. What do you say we continue this at another time?”

  “Oh? Oh, okay. I guess so,” Dad said.

  “I’ll e-mail you some dates for follow-up, or we can touch base next Saturday.” Saturday was Family Day, which was different from all the other weekly family group sessions because everybody ate lunch together, too. I wanted to throw up.

  “Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, honey, we love you.” His voice caught on the word love.

  On Mom’s end, all I heard was crying. And then, nothing. The receiver clicked.

  Mary looked over at me. “Elizabeth, I—”

  I interrupted her. “It’s time for lunch.” And I walked out.

  25

  Lunch was stir-fry. Oily stir-fry. The good news? It had broccoli, the first vegetable besides lettuce to appear on my plate since Sally told me fourteen days ago that veggies weren’t allowed. The bad news? I couldn’t get my parents out of my head.

  When I was little, Mom used to never let me have three-person playdates. “Someone always ends up feeling left out,” she’d say. I never thought it would be the same way with families, too.

  “Elizabeth!” Lexi said, holding up her fork. “Look! Broccoli!” She seemed to be in a great mood—I had no idea why—and hell-bent on cheering me up.

  Not wanting to be a downer, I held up my fork. “Broccoli!” I said. Her being all happy made me feel good, and all of a sudden, right there at the table, I decided I wanted to be happy for once, too. So I put my parents in a box and pushed it to the back corner of my mind.

  And besides, getting broccoli really was a thing to celebrate.

  “Cheers!” I said, only faking my smile a little.

  “Cheers!” Willa raised hers, too.

  “You guys are all nuts,” Margot said.

  “Wait! I have a toast,” Lexi said. We all held our broccoli up in the air. Ev
en Margot. “Ahem … Okay. Here’s to the men we love. Here’s to the men who love us. If the men we love aren’t the men who love us, then screw the men! Here’s to us!”

  “Hear, hear!” I said, and we clinked our broccolis together.

  The chicken was too fatty and the sauce was salty and my parents were a whole separate problem, but we had broccoli and I cherished every single limp and floppy piece.

  And, when I thought about it, I did have things to be happy about. I’d finished my lunch. In fact, I was proud to report that I’d finished every meal and snack in the past week. Because of that, I felt better both in my body and my brain. I wasn’t psyched to be gaining weight, but my thoughts were clearer and they moved through my head faster.

  Even so, when I went back to my room, I couldn’t help walking in jittery circles, the greasy chicken haunting me.

  Lexi watched. “The stir-fry was bad,” she said. “But you’ll be okay.”

  I stopped walking. “How can you be so calm?” Lexi was like a little island of Zen on her bed, calmly writing in her journal like lunch had never happened. “Didn’t you see all the oil?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, but I’m trying not to think about it.” In the eleven days since our bone density tests, Lexi had become a star patient. I guess getting her test results really had changed her. She made it look easy.

  “Oh.” I shut up.

  To calm down, I lay on my bed and tried to take long, slow breaths. Breathing like that was supposed to calm you down, right?

  I was at ten when Lexi interrupted me. “Hey, Elizabeth? I know this probably isn’t the best time, but I have something to tell you.”

  “What?” I asked, only half listening.

  I felt a slight weight on my bed as Lexi sat next to me. “I had a meeting with Michael last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “What?” I sat up. She couldn’t leave. I must have heard wrong. “When?”

  She paused. “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon? That’s impossible!” Usually, when people left, there was a protocol Wallingfield followed. The staff would always take you out to eat to “practice” in the real world, schedule extra therapy sessions, and plan out your home meals. No one left with only a day’s notice.