by Maria Padian
I’d wandered into that, straight off the road. Hadn’t called anyone, somehow sweet-talked my way past the guard dogs at the nurses’ station, even with the backpack I’d been hauling for the last twenty-four hours slung over my shoulder. One of the nurses led me to a corner of the ICU, with all these blinking lights and scary metal contraptions. To a bed where an old woman slept.
“Where’s Eva Smith?” I asked her. She gestured toward the old woman, who, you realized if you looked closely, was actually a fifteen-year-old girl, and this sound came from my throat.
It’s like I barked, the pain and surprise were that bad.
“Do you want anything else?” Mom asks. I shake my head. I’ve just polished off a stack of waffles layered with strawberry jam and drenched in maple syrup. We had a late breakfast.
She cradles her mug in both hands, staring across the lawn toward the tennis court. I’ve got my head tilted back, eyes half closed, face to the sun. It’s gonna be a scorcher. Heat bugs rasp in the hedges. Humidity must be ninety percent.
“I think this is the best thing, hon,” Mom says. “Until she’s stabilized, and released from the hospital, there’s not much we can do.” I open my eyes and stare frankly at my mother.
“She doesn’t want me here, anyway, Mom.” She sighs. She puts the mug on the table.
“That’s not Eva talking. It’s the eating disorder,” she says patiently.
“Oh god, not that again,” I mutter. I can’t help myself.
Eva’s been seeing a therapist … something else no one had bothered to tell me … and when Rhonda found out that I was at the hospital, having a mini freakout, she set me up with this woman Wendy. A crunchy-granola earth mother who talked psychobabble at me for half an hour. I think Rhonda paid her for her time.
“Think of an eating disorder as an emotionally abusive relationship,” Wendy said, in this maddeningly soothing tone. We were sitting together in the “family area,” this puke-colored, dimly lit room set aside for the family members of intensive-care-unit patients. As soon as the nurse saw me lose it in the ICU, she hauled me out of there and sat me down in Pukeville. Called the Smiths, who called the Lloyds … you can imagine. Henry, who’s supposedly in Florida, is actually in Jersey. Before I knew it, they were all at the hospital, with Wendy in tow.
“Imagine that abuser lives in your head,” she said. “He talks to you in a voice you might actually confuse with your own internal voice, but this one is extremely negative. Think of him as Ed. As in Eating Disorder. Imagine Ed is a snarky guy dressed in dark leather and smoky glasses. He whispers mean things to you all day. Tells you you’re fat. Calls you a loser. Undermines your confidence, convinces you that no one really likes you. And the only time Ed is nice is when you’re starving. He compliments that. Makes you feel virtuous for being disciplined and slim. Ed encourages the behaviors that hurt your body and isolate you from others.”
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to beat that Wendy senseless with her own Birkenstocks or fall into her arms, crying. She was comforting and infuriating at the same time, drove me crazy. Or maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe it was Rhonda. Who kept nodding, dabbing at her eyes, gazing at me earnestly as Wendy “explained” Eva’s eating disorder.
Worst of all, my own mother has bought into this crap. Now she thinks anorexia is a demonic possession by an abusive guy named Ed.
“I don’t think I can stomach the Wendy bull right now,” I say.
“Why do you think it’s ‘bull’?”
“Because Wendy is blaming Ed for Eva’s problems instead of laying the responsibility where it belongs,” I say angrily.
“And where would that be?” she asks gently.
“Oh, gosh. Let’s think hard. How about right smack-dab at Rhonda’s feet?” I say. She shakes her head at me.
“It’s not that simple,” she says. “I’ve been reading a lot about anorexia.…”
“Mom. Please. The woman defines the term ‘stage mother.’ ”
“So how come you’re not starving yourself?” my mother asks. “Is it because there’s no pressure on you? No difficult parent to contend with?”
Point to Mrs. Lloyd. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Well, for what I do, eating is encouraged. I spend hours in the weight room instead of hours in front of a mirror, in a leotard, comparing the size of my butt to the rest of the girls’.” Mom rolls her eyes.
“So we blame ballet?” she says.
“No, but it explains a lot. She needs to be wispy thin; I need to be muscular.”
“The differences between you and Eva go deeper than that,” Mom says. “Did it ever occur to you that part of her attraction to ballet was the look it required? The emphasis on perfection? It’s an art form that an obsessive, somewhat compulsive person might be drawn to. Which is also the very personality type most susceptible to an eating disorder. Just as certain people are more prone to becoming alcoholics or drug addicts, certain people, if the conditions are right, are more likely to develop anorexia.”
“I’d say life in Rhonda’s house provides the perfect conditions.”
“Honey, you have always been tough. You wear everyone’s expectations for you like wings: you fly. For Eva, success and the accompanying expectations are like stones she has to haul up a mountain. They burden her. Deep down, she doesn’t believe she’s worthy of the praise heaped upon her.”
“You’re wrong. I’m the negative one. The angry one. You know what the other players used to call me on the Jersey circuit? The bitch. That’s because I play mind games with my opponents. Mean mind games. My own boyfriend said it. But Eva? She’s the nicest person I know.” Mom shakes her head at me again.
“It’s not a matter of nice versus mean. It’s about strong versus vulnerable. Ed would never have had a chance in your head.”
Ed in my head. The words create a picture in my mind. I see a smarmy guy, a black-leather version of Jonathan Dundas, wandering onto my tennis court. Standing off to the side, a smirk on his rodentlike face. He watches me serve, and after I hit one in the net, he comments, “That sucked.”
I grab him by the scruff of the neck and kick him in the backside so hard he practically flies off the court.
Okay, so Henry Lloyd wouldn’t have put up with an Ed, real or imagined, for an instant. But who ever said Eva did? Who was ever negative to Eva? Rhonda, for all her faults, thinks her daughter is amazing.
Is it possible that someone as beautiful and extraordinary and kind as Eva, could, deep down, feel bad about herself? So bad that her negative feelings took on a life of their own and became an ugly voice in her head that she was willing to believe?
I don’t know. I’m so tired right now I feel like I’ve been wrung out. I don’t know who’s right, who’s to blame or what to do, for that matter. So I’m doing what I’m told. Heading back to Chadwick and my own great expectations. There’s a tournament on Friday, after all.
“You never told me you had a boyfriend,” Mom says quietly, interrupting my thoughts.
“He’s just some guy at the school,” I say shortly. “No biggie.”
She taps her head with one finger, as if she’s just remembered something.
“His name isn’t David, by any chance, is it?” My stomach does a 180-degree flip.
“And you know that how?” I ask.
“He left two messages on the answering machine. Sorry. With all the drama in the past twenty-four hours I forgot to tell you.”
“What did he say?” I ask. Like I couldn’t care less.
“He just asked you to call. He said he’d left messages on your cell phone.”
The screen door opens, and Dad steps out. He carries his own cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” I say to Mom. “I’ll call him back later.” She eyes me suspiciously.
“That’s a lot of messages for ‘no biggie,’ ” she says. Dad pulls up a metal chair.
“What’s no biggie?” he says. His hair is wet; he’s just showered.
“The David who’s been leaving messages is Henry’s boyfriend from Chadwick,” Mom explains. “Or … not,” she adds hastily when I flash her a murderous look.
Mark frowns.
“Did I meet him?” he asks.
“You could say that,” I reply. I barely hold back the sarcasm. “He was the guy you almost throttled the night you jumped out of the bushes.”
An uncomfortable silence follows. Finally Dad clears his throat.
“Henry, I’m very sorry if my behavior has cost you, in any way. If this boy broke up with you because he thinks your father is a nut job, then I’m sorry.”
“He thinks you’re a nut job, but that’s not why we broke up,” I say. Mark purses his lips. He knows he deserved that one.
I need to change the subject, fast. I do not want to discuss David with them. Right now they think I spent twenty hours on a bus from Boca to Newark, where I transferred to another bus for Ridgefield. Cabbed it to the hospital. End of story.
As far as they know, Smithfield, North Carolina, does not exist.
“Listen, no offense, but I don’t want to talk about David,” I say.
“You know,” Dad says briskly, “we have some time before we have to head out to the airport. What do you say I run you by the hospital once more?” I shake my head firmly.
“She doesn’t want me there,” I repeat. “We’ve been over this, okay?”
“I just spoke with Bob,” my father says. “Eva’s awake, and he says she’s been having a pretty good morning.”
“Well, how about we don’t wreck it for her?” I say. But he keeps talking.
“I’ll bet when she thinks about her visit with you yesterday, she’s going to feel bad. Because you’re her best friend, and she loves you.”
I stare at him. I cannot remember a time, ever, when he ventured a guess as to how someone else felt.
“Everyone deserves a second chance, Hen. Especially a good friend. There’s nothing better you can do for someone than give them a second chance.” His eyes are full as he looks at me, and even though I realize he’s talking about a hell of a lot more than Eva … I get it.
Every once in a while I’m lucky, and something prevents me from making a complete jerk out of myself. Hard to believe, but right now, that “something” is Mark Lloyd. Go figure.
Is it possible, I wonder, to kill a thing with a word? Does just saying stuff, dragging it out into the clear light of day, make it better? I honestly have no clue. We three Lloyds were up until the wee hours beating ourselves over the heads with words. About Eva. About tennis. About Mom and Dad. And Ray. Yeah, even Ray got dragged out from his little hidey-hole in our hearts. That was fun.
These therapy types, the Wendys of the world, think all the talk helps. All I know for sure is that keeping secrets never helps. The things we don’t say are like slow-acting poisons, eating away at us from the inside. So I don’t know if it would have helped Eva to say how sad and scared she always felt. I don’t know, if I’d been brave enough to admit to her and to myself that she was too skinny, and that the calorie counting worried me, if it would have helped. But not saying it sure hurt.
And real friends speak the painful truth.
I glance at my watch.
“Sure, Dad. Let’s go,” I say.
* * *
She’s awake, and her eyes are wide, urgent, as I approach. Even though I saw her yesterday, I still struggle at the sight of her. I will myself not to stare at her wasted shoulders. The thick knobs of her elbows.
Her dad is sitting with her when I arrive. He gets up and gives me a tight hug. He’s always so nice.
“Thanks for coming back, Henry,” he says. “I’m going to go make some phone calls while you girls visit, okay?” He bends over Eva and plants a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be back in a minute, hon.” He walks out of the ICU and gives us some privacy.
“Hi,” she says tentatively. “Thanks for coming back.”
“No problem,” I say. “How’s it goin’?” She turns her head restlessly. She reaches up to run her fingers through her hair.
“Hey! They untied you!” I say without thinking.
“Only for part of the time,” she says. “They put the restraints back when I’m alone.” She’s glancing nervously around the room. I wonder if she’s planning on trying something while I’m here. Her eyes return to me.
“Do you hate me?” she asks quietly. The words feel like a blow.
“Why would you even ask that?” I say. “Don’t be a dope.” I try to smile at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Dad says I told you to leave. I don’t remember that.” I shrug.
“It’s okay, Eva.”
“But it’s not,” she returns fretfully. “I mean, I wouldn’t say that to you, would I? And I can’t remember. So please, Henry, just tell me: did I ask you to leave?” I sigh.
“Yeah, you pretty much did. But Eva: I’m not mad. Okay?” Her eyes fill.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I can possibly do to help her. Except give her a second chance.
“Apology accepted,” I say, “even though you don’t owe me one.” The tense lines on her face relax.
“Dad says you’re going back today,” she says.
“Yup. Only place in America that’s hotter and more humid than Jersey,” I joke.
“Is it hot out?” she says.
“Awful. Like walking into a steam cleaner. You are very lucky to be in all this nice air-conditioning.” I realize this is a pretty stupid thing to say to someone in intensive care.
“It’s too cold,” she says. “I hate air-conditioning.”
“Well, maybe you should be going to Florida,” I quip. Stupid comment number two. One more and I’ll strike myself out. Eva and I are quiet for a while.
“I might, you know. Go to Florida.” I look at her in surprise.
“When I get out of here. Wendy wants me to go to this program in Florida.”
“What sort of program?” I ask.
“For anorexia,” she says. She holds my eyes with hers when she says this. It’s the first time the word has passed between us. Mom told me Eva refuses to admit that she has anorexia.
I nod. Accept the word. Allow it to float freely in the space between us.
“That might be good, you know?” I tell her. “Florida’s not so bad. I mean, it ain’t Joisey. But it’s okay.” I try to smile bravely at her.
“Jersey tomatoes are the best,” she says, returning the barest trace of a smile.
“The very best,” I agree. “Although, if we both end up in Florida, what will that make us? Hothouse tomatoes?” She laughs. A little. Then she turns, stares at the wall.
“We’ll see,” she says quietly to no one in particular. She seems very distracted.
I could burst with all the things I need to tell her. But seeing her lying there, a ghost of the beautiful, lively girl I hugged good-bye only five short weeks ago, I’m ashamed of my own need. She almost died. What’s a trophy, or a party, or even a broken heart, compared to that?
I miss her. I miss my best girlfriend.
Her eyes are closed; she’s dozing off. She’s still on some pretty heavy meds. I grasp her now-free hand and squeeze. As far as I went, twenty-plus hours, a thousand miles, she strayed farther.
“Come back to us, Eva,” I whisper.
Chapter Thirty-Four
EVA
Someone’s played a mean trick on me and replaced Henry with Wendy. I wake to find her, draped in one of those wrinkly, sacklike dresses, sitting in the chair beside my bed.
“Hello, Eva,” she says, not unkindly.
My mouth feels dry. I can tell that my own breath is bad.
“Can I have some water?” I ask. She presses a button that slowly raises the head of my bed to a semi-upright sitting position. She holds out a tall paper cup with a lid and a straw. I reach for it. My hands are still unrestrained. Before I sip, I lift one edg
e of the lid. Peer inside. Sniff. Plain water. I take a long pull on the straw and the cotton lining in my mouth dissolves.
“Is Henry gone?” I ask. She nods. I take another long, cool sip.
“How long have you been here?” I ask. Wendy glances at her watch.
“Not long,” she replies.
I hate the way Wendy never answers questions. Why couldn’t she just say, “I’ve been sitting here for seventeen minutes.” Or, “I haven’t left your side for thirty years. You’ve just woken from a coma, and Zac Efron is president of the United States.” I mean, if you take into account the creation of the universe, thirty years qualifies as “not long.”
They must be backing off on the meds. I’m starting to remember things. Like how much Wendy annoys me.
“How do you feel?” she asks. I consider.
“Less loopy,” I tell her. She nods.
“Do you think you’re ready to eat something?” I freeze.
Here she goes again, Lard Ass pushing food. What’ll it be today, Wendy-girl? Peanut butter Häagen-Dazs sundaes?
“I thought I was being fed by this tube,” I tell her.
“Yes, but you want to begin eating normally so that your doctors can remove the tube.”
“But I can’t eat while I have the tube!”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be too much.”
“Why do you think that would be too much?”
Why do you think, fatso? Okay, maybe a pump full of calories plus a full meal doesn’t seem like too much to you. Maybe you don’t mind waddling around with those ankles. But there’s no way I’m doing it.
“Why don’t you just answer my question!”
“What question, Eva?”
Throw it. Just throw it at her.
The paper cup hits the floor. Water pools.
“I’m sorry, but that’s just not acceptable.” Slight trace of irritation in Wendy’s voice. It comes as something of a relief, getting a bona fide human reaction out of her. She stands up.
