Holding Out for a Zero

by Wardell, Heather

  “The blanket on the back of the chair is for you,” she says, settling herself in her own chair, “if you’d like to use it.”

  I reach behind me and pull down the softest thing I’ve ever felt. “What’s this made of?” I say as I cuddle up in the mass of baby pink, glad for the distraction from why I’m here. “Feels like kitten fur.”

  She nods, smiling. “It’s great, isn’t it? Baby alpaca and angora. Nico got it for me.”

  I tense when she says that name, and she must notice because she says, “You should know two things. First, he mentioned you and asked me to see you right away if you ever called. And second, I will not tell him you were here unless you ask me to. Okay?”

  I nod. I’m not sure I like them discussing me, but I suppose—

  “And for the record, we didn’t talk about you any more than that. He just wanted me to know you should get priority. So let’s get started. Tell me what’s brought you here.”

  My throat tightens, and I bite my lip and snap my rubber band against my wrist. I don’t want to cry. I never cry.

  She pushes a box of tissues on the table between us closer to me, then sits silent. It isn’t a cold silence, though, and eventually I feel able to say, “All I wanted was control. And that’s put me more out of control than I ever thought I could be. Ironic.”

  She nods. “Happens that way, unfortunately. Control issues are challenging. Walk me through it, Valerie.”

  I do. I’m all over the place, but I tell her about Gloria’s assault, admitting out loud for the first time that I became a size zero to save my sister’s life, and how now I can’t stop even though she can no longer be saved and could in fact never have been saved by me. I tell her about Anthony dying, and how my relationship with my parents fell apart as a result, and how I don’t know what to do with the knowledge that Gloria framed me for his death. I tell her about Nico, and how we’d started to be together but I’d felt like he was drawing back so I’d pushed him away on purpose so I couldn’t lose him by mistake. And I tell her how I know I need food but can’t seem to let myself have any.

  She questions me as I go along, asking about how I’d eaten before Gloria’s assault and whether I binged or purged, and though everything seems overwhelming we have small moments of amusement too, like when I describe how I hadn’t been able to make myself throw up Remy’s cheesecake and had considered myself a failure for it and she says wryly, “I call that a victory, frankly.”

  She challenges me too, doesn’t let me get away with anything. I say that I can’t have an eating disorder because only teens get those and she tells me that a third of her patients are over thirty. I’m shocked by that, and even more so when she adds, “And your decision to lose weight to save Gloria, to make those two things connect though I know you knew they did not? That’s a teenager kind of way to react. While you’re clearly a strong powerful woman, part of you is stuck in your teens.”

  I get a vivid mental picture of myself at fourteen, trying to make up for Anthony’s death by cleaning out his room, by dumping my boyfriend because I didn’t deserve one after what I’d done, by throwing myself into my studies to make something worthwhile of myself, and I know she’s correct. Twenty years on, I’m still trying to right that unrightable wrong. Maybe it’s time to stop. Maybe, with her help, I can.

  She also won’t allow me to accept blame for anything that happened to Gloria, saying instead, “Sometimes things happen that we can’t control.” I try to argue that we should be able to control them but she simply says, “Nope. Sorry,” and somehow that blunt truth does comfort me a bit though I want her to be wrong.

  Eventually I’ve laid out everything I can think of for her, and I slump back into the chair and say, “So that’s it. Fix me.”

  She chuckles. “Yeah, no. Doesn’t work that way. Eating disorders, which we both now know is what you have, are complicated, and yours comes from the intersection of your work-related size issues and Gloria’s assault and the anniversary of Anthony’s death, all of those things working together to push you over the edge at this precise moment in your life. But I know we can get you back on track together. One more thing… what have you eaten today?”

  I make a zero shape with my hands.

  “I’m going to say something to you, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”

  I nod.

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Orange-strawberry-banana smoothie,” I say promptly, then feel my throat close against the mere idea of drinking one even as my stomach growls. “But do you know how much sugar’s in one? And the calories? Might as well drink syrup.”

  “Really?”

  Her voice holds no sarcasm or doubt. It’s like she’s genuinely asking me though she has to know the truth. “Well,” I have to admit. “No. There’s good stuff in there too. But it’s more than that.”

  “Oh?”

  I nod, and explain how I’d stopped to try to find a smoothie place instead of going straight to the hospital for Gloria. “Drinking one feels…”

  She waits. I just shrug. She waits longer. Eventually I say, “Disloyal.”

  She nods. “Do you think Gloria would mind?”

  I remember her saying we’d both drink street smoothies in Union Square. I shake my head and blink hard.

  “Your homework,” Dr. Melton says with a gentle smile, “is to drink a fruit smoothie. Orange-strawberry-banana, or any kind you want. Make it at home, buy it, whatever you’d like. Both for the smoothie itself and for what it means to you. I’d like to see you this Thursday and then on Tuesdays and Thursdays for three weeks and after that we’ll see how we’re doing. Okay?”

  I manage to say, “Okay,” but my heart isn’t in it. Drink a whole smoothie? It’d be easier to climb Mount Everest in my leopard-print pumps.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “You can do this,” Dr. Melton says on Thursday at the end of my second session. “I know you can. Get a small one and sip it. Take all day if you want. You can manage it.”

  I don’t understand how she can be so positive, given that I haven’t managed a smoothie or much of anything in the last few days, but I appreciate her faith in me so I nod and get carefully to my feet.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday,” she says, rising too, “and I’ll send you off with this last thought, after our talk today about how you use routines and control to give you security: sometimes there’s great control in choosing to let go.”

  I nod again, give her the best smile I can muster up, and leave.

  Outside in the blazing summer sun, though other people are sweating and complaining of the heat I feel physically comfortable for the first time in forever. I set off down the sidewalk toward the subway station, but when I reach it I keep walking. It’s not a punishing walk like I’ve done in the past; it feels almost like meditation.

  Is there really great control in choosing to let go?

  I’ve been trying for twenty years to fix something that wasn’t my fault. Dr. Melton made it clear to me today that everything started with Anthony’s death, and that even if it had been my fault my reaction of changing my entire life, while understandable, didn’t help me. Could I, should I, choose to let it all go somehow?

  But how? No matter what I do, Gloria and Anthony will still be gone, and my parents will still be distant from me.

  The first part is true. But the second?

  As I walk, I pull out my phone and hit their speed button. Mom might still be mad at me, but I am going to try.

  “Valerie, what’s wrong?”

  The fear in Mom’s voice, fear for me, surprises me. I don’t think she’s ever sounded that worried about me before. Or maybe she has and I just never realized. Does she actually care about me despite everything?

  “Nothing,” I manage, then clear my throat and say, “Seriously, nothing. But this Saturday is your anniversary and—”

  “I told you we don’t want a party,” she says, a hint of her usual snappiness ret
urning.

  “I know. But would you let me take you and Dad out for dinner? It’s a big deal, forty years. Deserves a little celebration. A little one.”

  Silence. Then… “You’d do that?”

  The surprise and shy hope in her voice, her doubt that I’d bother, hurt, but I say, “Absolutely. Got anything good near you?”

  “Sure, but… you’ll eat, right? What would work for you?”

  My throat gets that sick closed-off feeling at the mere thought of food, but I say, “Whatever you want. I’ll find something on the menu.”

  I can feel her wanting to push me but she just says, “Okay, then. There’s a place here we’ve been wanting to try.”

  She gives me the address and we pick a time, then she says, “Oh, and Valerie? Thank you. I appreciate your making this effort. Believe me, I do.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, and we end the call.

  That effort had been one thing. The real challenge will come on Saturday, when we’ll be out in a restaurant and I’ll have to eat something.

  *****

  “I’ll just have coffee, thanks,” I tell the waiter after dinner. Mom takes a sharp breath like she’s about to comment, but says only, “Two forks with my cheesecake, please, in case she wants a bite.”

  The waiter smiles, and I try not to show how horrible the idea of cheesecake is to me. If Mom had ordered anything else I might have managed to make myself take a nibble, but even just the cheesecake picture in the menu had brought back that awful night where I’d stuffed myself with it and made me feel all the same terrible emotions.

  I clear my throat as the waiter leaves and say, “So, anyhow. Forty years married, huh? Nice job.”

  “Thank you,” my parents say together, then smile at each other. I smile too, glad I’ve finally managed to get something out about their anniversary. I knew I had to, but with how angry Mom had been at Gloria’s funeral when I mentioned the possible party I’d been scared.

  I’d tried several times over the course of our meal, but making myself eat the chicken caesar salad with no dressing or croutons or bacon or parmesan cheese I’d chosen after studying the restaurant’s menu online was enough of a challenge. I still haven’t had the smoothie Dr. Melton wants me to, but I feel sure she’ll be pleased I ate a few bites of chicken along with my lettuce.

  “This is nice,” Mom says, looking around the dimly lit restaurant. “Thanks for suggesting it, Glori— Valerie.”

  She’d often mixed up our names, occasionally also throwing in the family pet for good measure, but it feels horrible now. “You’re welcome, Dad,” I say, trying to sound light, but she speaks over me. “I’m sorry. Just slipped out.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, though it isn’t quite. But I know she didn’t mean to, and I know I have to let it go.

  Dad saying “Hey, at least she didn’t call you Miss Fluffypants this time” helps with that as it makes us all laugh.

  “True. I’ll count my blessings.”

  The waiter arrives with our coffees and their desserts as I speak, and I accept my coffee and refuse a taste of Mom’s cheesecake.

  After taking a bite of his caramel sundae and telling me it’s too good to share, Dad says, “So what is that anyhow?” and points down to the floor by my chair, at the large gift bag I’d brought on the subway with me. “For us?”

  “I… it is, but… I don’t know whether you want it.” Or whether I want to give them the two things in the package.

  “Can’t know until we see it.”

  “Good point.” I reach down into the bag and find Gloria’s Central Park Reservoir painting, which I hold beneath the table while I say, “Mom, you know that paint palette necklace from Gloria’s things? Well, she did paint. She started a few months ago, and shared a studio with Remy… you met him at the hospital, I think.”

  Mom nods and Dad says, “The guy who paid for her health insurance.”

  I blink. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Guess we forgot to tell you.”

  My heart warms toward Remy, whose email I still haven’t answered. Not only did he take care of Gloria using part of his inheritance, he never brought it up to me or bragged about it. I like that. “Okay, well anyhow. She did paint. He gave me this and I thought you might like it.” I lift the painting up and hold it out so they can see it. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  Dad nods and Mom says, “I like the sunset colors. Very pretty, yes. And you say there are more paintings?”

  One painting in particular fills my mind, but I push it aside because I’m still not sure how to proceed with it and say, “A few. Remy has them, and—” I cut myself off before saying they could see them. Maybe it’s better if they don’t. “And,” I say again, trying to hide that I’m changing directions, “he thought you might want this one. So it’s yours. If you’d like it.”

  They both nod, and I try to hand it across the table but Dad says, “Could we take it in the bag? Might be easier.”

  “I…” I clear my throat. “Well, there’s something else in there actually. Something that Gloria ordered for you. And it’s kind of a coincidence that I found out about it at all.”

  When I don’t reach down for it, Mom says, “I guess we should see it, right?”

  Will it upset them? I think frantically for a moment then realize I can’t possibly know what will happen. All the thinking and worrying in the world won’t change that. So maybe, just this once, I should take a chance. I know from the guy at the photography studio that Gloria wanted them to have it today. So they will.

  I pull the picture frame from under my chair and hold it out to them.

  “Should we finish our dessert first?” Dad says, holding his spoon over his melting sundae.

  I shake my head. “To be honest, I’m kind of nervous.”

  They exchange a quick glance. “All right, then,” Dad says, setting down his spoon and accepting the package. He tears the wrapping open and stares frowning at its contents.

  “What is it, Mike?”

  Dad’s eyes flick to Mom then back to the photo. “It’s Gloria and… I’m not sure. I think… but I might be wrong.”

  He angles it toward Mom. She gives it one good look then gasps. “It’s Anthony.” She turns to me, her eyes wide. “Right? Aged up?”

  I nod, and she returns her attention to the photo. “That’s amazing,” she whispers, and though her voice is quiet I can hear tears in it. “So that’s how he’d have looked if…”

  Dad pushes the photo into her hands and takes off from the table.

  Feeling horrible, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know whether to show you or not and I guess I shouldn’t have.”

  She takes a breath to reply but I burst out with, “I’m just so sorry. For everything. And now I’ve upset Dad too.”

  She sets the frame down so it stands with the picture facing us both. “He always wondered, when Anthony was little, whether he’d look like him when he grew up. Your dad and grandfather looked so much alike, and he wondered if he and Anthony would too.” She studies the picture. “Seeing this, seeing how they do look a little the same around the eyes, well, I guess that was hard on him.”

  I nod. “And I’m sorry for that. And for…” I can’t quite say I’m sorry for Anthony, now that I know it wasn’t my fault, but I also don’t know if I can tell her that.

  “Honey, I… the last time I saw you I sounded like we blamed you. About Anthony. And I’ve felt awful about that ever since. Because…” She bites her lip. “Because I did blame you. And I didn’t know until right then.”

  I can’t believe how much hearing that hurts, and the urge to tell her the truth floods me. But fortunately I don’t because that would have stopped her going on with, “But my therapist says that’s normal and—”

  “Your therapist?”

  She has the grace to look embarrassed. “I know, I was a little disapproving of that sort of thing.”

  A little?

  “But thinking that
about you shocked me,” she says, looking into my eyes, and I realize she hasn’t looked directly at me like this in forever. “I knew back then, and I know now, that it was just a horrible accident. It could have happened to anyone. I’ve always known that, but I guess inside I did believe it was your fault. But I don’t want that, so I’ve had a therapist for the last few weeks, and with her help your dad and I—”

  “Dad’s going too?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Stop interrupting your mother,” she says, then winks at me. I haven’t seen her wink since the day before Anthony died, and it chokes me up.

  Her eyes fill with tears. “Honey, I am sorry,” she says, sounding like the words hurt. “I just… if you were a mother, you’d get it. Anthony was gone for good, Gloria took off and we didn’t know when she’d be back if ever, and you, well, you were the only one left.”

  “And I caused everything so you hated me,” I say, wondering if telling her the truth would change that.

  She stares at me. “No! No, I was terrified to lose you too. I had three kids and then a week later I only had one, and I couldn’t bear the idea that you’d be gone too.” She shakes her head, a tear escaping one eye. “You thought I hated you?”

  I have to swallow hard before I say, “Well, yeah. It made sense. With Anthony and—”

  She cuts me off. “Never.” She swipes away the tear then rubs her forehead. “Hated myself for a while though. Afterwards, when I realized we’d pushed you out. People kept telling me that marriages rarely survive the loss of a child, and I didn’t want that to happen to you. To us too, of course, but especially to you. You’d lost your siblings, I didn’t want you to lose your family unit too. I was determined to keep your dad and me together and I put all my energy into that. Too much. Into that and into getting myself back together. And once that was done, you had… stepped aside somehow, and I didn’t know what to do about it and I didn’t know how to bring you back.”

  “But you wanted to?” I whisper, trying to believe.