What I Lost

by Alexandra Ballard

  By 11:15 I began to wonder if my parents weren’t coming. To be honest, I was a teeny-tiny bit hurt. Despite all my mixed-up feelings, I wanted them to want to come. And then, at 11:27, when I’d just about given up waiting for them, there they were, walking down the hall toward my room. A little blip of glad went through me, but only for a second. “Hey,” I said super casually, like I didn’t care. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  They didn’t take my bait. “Well, hello to you, too,” Mom said.

  She wore an expensive-looking blouse I hadn’t seen before, pearls, a black skirt that went to her knees, and black boots. I bet she’d bought her outfit just for today.

  Her eyes traveled my body, and when she got to my legs, she pursed her lips before forcing an I-love-my-daughter-and-am-so-happy-to-see-her smile. That’s when I remembered why I hadn’t wanted them to come.

  But then Mom opened her arms, and for a second I forgot I was mad at her. She smelled familiar and all Mom-like and I squeezed her hard, not wanting to let her go.

  We were mid-hug when it all came back: the phone conversation, the way she hadn’t called all week, and I pulled away. She pretended not to notice, saying in this fake perky voice instead, “When is lunch? I can’t wait to eat!” Her voice kicked up a notch at the end, like she’d rehearsed in the car or something.

  Dad winced.

  And just like that, my warm feelings for her turned to ice. “Mom, when have you ever been excited for lunch?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I love lunch!”

  I didn’t know this person, this TV-ad mom, chipper and sunny and incredibly annoying.

  Maybe that’s why I imitated her tone when I said, “There is cheese and yogurt and salad with TONS of dressing—full-fat ranch! And muffins, and bread, and all sorts of stuff we never have at home. Everybody has to eat everything.” I watched her face. She just stared at me, her face blank. “And they told us to watch you guys today, because you’d show us what normal people eat like.”

  That last line was a lie. Nobody had said that to us. But finally, my mother would have to eat everything on her plate. Everything.

  Mom watched me for a moment and then said softly, “Look, Elizabeth, I am trying, okay? I’m really trying.” I didn’t acknowledge her or the little tug of remorse inside me.

  As we walked into the dining room we passed Margot, tray in hand. She’d told me her parents weren’t coming, acting like it was no big deal.

  “Margot,” I said, a little too quickly. “Meet my parents. You guys, this is Margot.” Mom looked her up and down. For a minute I was ashamed of my friend and her black-dyed hair with its mouse-brown roots, her faded black T-shirt, jeans worn through at the knees, and holey black Converse high-tops. She looked like a slob. “So, um, where are you eating?”

  She replied drily, “The orphans get to eat in the guest dining room.”

  Through the doors in the back of the room I could see a lonely table where two girls were already sitting, hunched over their trays.

  I reached out to touch Margot’s shoulder in sympathy, but I wasn’t fast enough. She turned to my parents, said, “Nice to meet you,” and left.

  Mom looked after her, eyes narrow. “Where do we know her from?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. Who is she?” I knew Margot hated being defined by her last name, but before I could control myself, I blurted out, “She’s Margot Camby, Mom.”

  “Oh!” She looked toward the doors where Margot had disappeared. “That’s how I knew her. You two took ballet when you were six. I think she went by Merry then.” Mom leaned in close and, in a whisper, said, “She was such a darling-looking little girl. What a shame.”

  “Mom! That’s not nice!” Only five minutes in and she was already judging. “We aren’t supposed to talk like that about people.”

  We picked our way through the room, looking for seats. “Well, this isn’t so bad,” Mom said. They’d put pots of bright red, yellow, and orange Gerbera daisies on the tables. It looked like a nursing home.

  “They never have flowers on the tables,” I said. “It’s for you guys.”

  “Oh.” Her smile flickered like a dying lightbulb.

  Then Nurse Jill stood up. “Hello and welcome! We are so happy to have you here. I have enjoyed getting to know each and every one of your beautiful girls. They are wonderful, strong, resilient spirits who bring light and life to our facility.” Apparently everybody was going to lie today. She stood with her hands clasped as if she were a happy nun about to sing “Climb Every Mountain.”

  Then she announced, like we were at a wedding or something, “The buffet is now open. Enjoy!”

  The buffet was for the families only. I grabbed my loaded green tray like usual and went back to the table. Mom and Dad ambled over to the food line with the rest of the parents, all silently sizing each other up, reassuring themselves that they were better parents than, say, Allie’s mom, who waited in line with big rocks on her fingers, a Botoxed face, and probably half a bottle of foundation caked onto her skin.

  Willa’s mom waited behind my parents. When she came out of the kitchen with her tray, Willa sat up straight and smiled. She suddenly looked different, sparkly almost. She looked twelve. Like, normal twelve, like a kid who would be hanging out at the mall food court on Fridays with her friends while a mom sat off to the side, trying not to look. Willa’s mother sat down beside her and they leaned into each other, both looking really happy.

  My parents, on the other hand, were like a before photo for an anti-anxiety drug.

  “Well, doesn’t this look delicious!” Mom said, perching on the edge of her chair after they’d found me. Dad handed her a bowl of lettuce and a yogurt. Then he passed over a turkey-and-cheese sandwich. “This isn’t mine,” she said.

  I guess trying wasn’t so high on her list after all.

  Dad shot her a look. “Yes, it is. Remember how much you were craving a sandwich in the car?” This was interesting. Dad never made Mom eat. Ever.

  “Right,” she said, paling under her foundation and blush. She poked the bread with a finger. “Looks delicious.”

  “The selection!” Dad said. “You can eat like a king here!”

  Mom didn’t take a bite. I didn’t either. Finally Dad picked up his own sandwich. “Mmm … I’m starved,” he said, taking a monster bite, tearing through the tomato, the lettuce, the whole wheat bread, and the smoked turkey. It was so easy for him.

  “Honey, do they have mayonnaise?” he said, still chewing.

  “I … um … I don’t know. I could ask, I guess.”

  Dad suddenly looked ashamed. “No worries. Never mind. The sandwich is delicious, and my waistline doesn’t need any mayonnaise anyway.” He looked stricken. “I mean, sorry, I…”

  I shrugged. “I’ll ask.”

  Nurse Jill got a little cup of it from the kitchen and brought it to Dad. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at her. “Bet you don’t get many requests for that around here!” He looked stricken again. Nurse Jill smiled and walked away. “Sorry, honey,” he said. “This is all a little strange for me.”

  I shrugged again.

  I still hadn’t touched my meal. Mom hadn’t either.

  Dad said, “Karen, the salad looks delicious,” which was obviously code for Eat, Karen.

  “Um, yes, it does,” she said nervously.

  I watched her stab a bit of lettuce with her fork and delicately dip the tip of it into her plastic container of dressing. She put it to her mouth, touched it with her tongue, and placed it in between her teeth. She caught me staring and started to chew.

  I knew how she felt, but I didn’t say anything. I just watched, chewing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I still had a granola bar, a banana, and a yogurt in front of me.

  I looked around. All the other moms were eating like it was no big deal, like they did this all the time. And here was mine, taking bird-size bites she could barely handle. Why couldn’t she just be
normal?

  “Mom, aren’t you going to eat?”

  My parents stared at me. My mother turned red.

  “Mom! It is so hard to eat when you’re acting like that. You’re supposed to model normal behavior for me!” Before Wallingfield I’d watch Mom eat and feel guilty if I ate more than she did. Now, though, I saw her eating for what it was. Screwed up. I opened my granola bar and broke off a piece. I forced it in my mouth.

  Mom put her fork down and stared silently at her plate.

  Dad hissed, “Elizabeth, that’s enough!” loud enough that a couple of parents glanced in our direction.

  “Sure, Dad, take her side, like always.” I took a miserable bite of banana.

  Nurse Jill stood up. “Excuse me, everybody,” she said. “We have ten minutes left for lunch, and then we’ll begin the family program. Ten minutes, everybody. Enjoy!” The word enjoy seemed especially cruel.

  For the rest of lunch we sat in silence, Mom and me struggling, Dad having no idea what to do about it. With every bite I took I was convinced Mom was watching me, worried about the food making me fat. I knew what Mary would say—Elizabeth, most likely your mom is worried about her own meal and not paying attention to yours—but I couldn’t process her words. I finished, but barely.

  When Nurse Jill finally announced that lunch was over, I didn’t know who was more relieved: Mom, Dad, or me. Without a word, Mom walked out of the room, leaving Dad, her untouched lunch, and me behind.

  I followed her. When I glanced back, Dad was still sitting there, staring at Mom’s full plate like the saddest man in the world. Considering the people in the room, that was saying a lot.

  30

  Always one to keep up appearances, Mom saved two seats next to her in the group therapy room. Reluctantly I took one, careful to leave a seat between us. I crossed my legs and folded my arms across myself.

  Simone and her parents sat in the front row. I thanked the universe Tristan wasn’t with them.

  Margot was in the last row with the other “orphans.” She’d wrapped a huge knitted scarf around her neck and I could see an earbud peeking out of one side. Smart girl.

  Behind us, Willa was negotiating with her mom. “I want to go home,” she pleaded. “Please don’t make me stay here. What do I need to do to get you to take me with you today?” Her mom seemed so great. Just watching them at lunch—the way she leaned in when Willa talked, and laughed when she spoke, and hugged her when she finished her lunch made me jealous. And annoyed at Willa. I wanted to turn around and say, If you want to go home so bad, Willa, eat something! Stop hiding your food!

  “Um … hello?” Mary tapped the microphone. The chatter in the room died down. “Thank you all for coming. The point of this meeting is to give parents and patients a chance to share experiences. So often, when I speak to people dealing with an eating disorder in their family, they speak of feeling like no one else can understand what they are going through.” A few people around the room nodded in agreement. “Well, here at Wallingfield, you are not alone. We are in this battle together.”

  She talked about Wallingfield and what it wanted (us to get better) and who needed support (everybody). Then she said, “I’d like to open the floor up to you. No need to raise hands.”

  No one spoke. Only the shuffling of feet and an occasional cough broke the silence. And then, in the row in front of us, Jean’s father stood up. He was tall and narrow like his daughter. Awkwardly, he walked to the front and took the mic.

  “My name is Frank Parsons. I’m here to support my daughter, Jean. I guess what I want to say today is that it is really hard as a dad to know that your baby girl is hurting and that the situation is completely out of your control. But I want to thank everybody here at Wallingfield for taking such good care of our Jean and, to some extent, taking care of her parents, too. This has been the darkest year of our lives, but we are comforted to know she is so well cared for here. She looks wonderful. Healthy. Happy. So thank you.” Nurse Jill and others nodded. He sat down and gave Jean’s shoulder a squeeze. Jean leaned into him.

  Willa’s mom got up next. She cleared her throat before speaking. “As some of you know, I am not Willa’s biological mother.”

  I felt my eyes widen and I resisted the urge to turn around and say to Willa, What?

  “I adopted her out of foster care when she was five. Since then, she has been my beacon of light. But the last couple of years have been hard. Terribly hard for both of us. I want to thank Wallingfield for caring for my baby so well. I wonder sometimes why the good Lord would pile so much on one little girl’s shoulders. But I have faith Willa will persevere. Thank you.”

  Willa was adopted? Why hadn’t she ever said anything?

  And then I heard Mom’s folding chair creak. She stood almost defiantly, picking her way through the crowd of about thirty parents and patients until she reached the microphone. I forgot all about Willa. I prayed Mom was just going to do the same thing as the other parents. Thank Wallingfield, profess her undying love for me, and then sit down.

  “Hello?” The microphone whined. Mom’s head snapped back. Mary darted out of her seat and fiddled with the knobs on the amplifier. The whining cut out. Mom leaned in again. “Hello … So, I am Elizabeth’s mom.” I looked over to see Dad gripping the metal edge of his chair.

  “I came here today relieved, because I knew Elizabeth was safe. I didn’t have to worry about her.” Willa’s mom nodded along with a few other parents. “So thank you, for your care and concern for our daughter.” Then Mom leaned closer to the mic like it was an ear and she had a secret. I sat up straighter. “This has been a tough experience for all of us. Right before Elizabeth was admitted, the doctor told me I needed to model good eating habits for my daughter. I always thought I had—we live a healthy life, at least in my opinion. We did everything we were supposed to—no sweets, no carbs, low fat or fat free whenever possible. A healthy weight is a part of that. That’s why, when the scale snuck up, I would monitor my food more carefully. And I did the same for Elizabeth because I didn’t want her to ever feel ashamed of her appearance. We would talk about it together, the importance of staying fit and trim.” The room was quiet—so quiet that it felt like everybody else was holding their breath.

  “I just meant for her to stay healthy. But apparently, I was supposed to just let her eat whatever she liked and never comment, even when she hit puberty and started to gain. Apparently saying something made me a bad parent.” She looked around, but this time people didn’t nod. They just sat there, staring at their laps. Dad’s face was as white as a dinner plate.

  I elbowed him. “Make her stop,” I whispered.

  He didn’t say anything. Mom kept going. I sank down in my seat until I could barely see her over the heads of the people in front of me. “And what about the moms I see in the grocery store? You know, the ones with the carts loaded up with frozen pizzas and ice cream and Kool-Aid and candy and … Well, you get the point. What about them? Aren’t they bad parents too? Aren’t they?”

  She looked suddenly surprised, like she couldn’t believe she’d just said all that out loud, here, in front of me. In front of everyone. Dad stood up and shimmied his way out of our row. Mom didn’t seem to notice. When he got up to where she was, he took her arm, but she shook him off, cleared her throat, smoothed her skirt again, and leaned into the microphone one last time. “But now I’m thinking that maybe I am. A bad parent. And I feel terrible. But what does that help?” She paused. She let Dad put his hand on her elbow this time. “Thank you,” she said, and stepped away from the microphone. Except, instead of coming back to her seat, she walked straight out of the room. Dad left too. Abandoned, I sat in my seat for a moment, too stunned to know what to do. After a moment or two, I stood up and followed them out the door, every eye in the room watching me go.

  When I turned the corner, Mom was crumpled on a chair in the hall. Dad was on one knee next to her, kneading her hand and speaking quietly. I hadn’t even reached them when
I heard footsteps behind me. It was Mary.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked them softly, like she was a funeral director or something.

  “No, thank you,” Mom said, laughing humorlessly. “I’m sorry about what happened in there. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just a difficult time. That’s all.”

  Mary shook her head. “Don’t worry, Karen. Why don’t we go into my office where we can speak privately?”

  “No, thank you,” Mom said, clearing her throat and standing up. “Brian and I actually have to be going.”

  Dad looked startled. “Karen, I—”

  “Brian,” Mom said. “Elizabeth—I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I need to collect my thoughts. Maybe in a couple of days…” She didn’t look at me.

  “What? You guys are leaving?” I said, my voice wavering. “How can you just leave? We haven’t met with Mary yet, and…”

  “I know all that,” Mom said, “but I can’t do this right now. I am so sorry. Brian, I’ll be in the car.” She looked pale and like she might pass out.

  “Mom, did you have breakfast?” I said this softly. I didn’t want to make her feel worse, but I had to know.

  “Of course, Elizabeth. I had what I always had.” She’d had nonfat Greek yogurt, exactly one measured half cup, half of the recommended serving size. A total of 65 calories. She ate it every day at exactly 6:45 a.m., no matter what her schedule. It was 1:30 now and she’d barely touched her lunch. She needed to eat something. For a second, I felt like the mother. “Mom, you haven’t eaten enough today. Why don’t we ask Mary for a sna—”

  “Elizabeth, I’m fine.” She turned to Dad. “I’ll be in the car.” Her high heels clicked down the hall.

  Dad turned toward me. “Elizabeth, I…”

  “Dad, stop.” He couldn’t make this better. Nobody could.

  “But, honey, you need to…”

  “Dad, Mom has a problem. Do you hear me? She needs help.”