by Vivian Wood
“Okay.” Harper knew it was the middle of the day, but she was exhausted. She was on autopilot as she answered the nurse’s questions.
“Is the address on your license correct?”
“Um, no. I just moved. I … I don’t remember the address.”
“That’s okay, we can update it later.”
God. You don’t even know where you live.
“Who should we put down as an emergency contact?”
“Sean Cavanaugh.” His name was out of her mouth before she could register it. Was he really the first one she thought of? She even knew his number by heart.
“Okay, now I’m going to check your blood pressure, lungs, and draw some blood. Huh,” the nurse said. “Such slender arms. I’m jealous! Hold on, I’ll need to get a children’s cuff for this.”
Harper smiled into the fluorescent light. You’re not fat, she beamed to herself. A children’s cuff!
“Alright, that’s better,” the nurse said. The cuff looked so much less serious than the big, bulky black one—so big, Harper simply couldn’t fill it. “That’s … one-sixty over one-ten. Do you have a history of high blood pressure in your family? That’s pretty high for someone your age and weight.”
“I think it’s just stress,” Harper said. Idiot. She’d lost count of how many times doctors and medical professionals were stumped by her strange numbers. Don’t you know being so thin gives you high blood pressure? Don’t they teach you that in medical school?
“Could be,” the nurse said. “I’ll just make a note of it. You’ll want to follow up on that if it continues.”
Yeah, that’s what I want to spend my no-insurance money on. Monitoring a so-called condition when I know perfectly well what the cause is.
“And now the blood,” the nurse said. “Do needles bother you?”
She almost laughed. “No,” she said. Needles are what brought me to Sean.
“Okay,” the nurse said. “All done! We’re pretty busy today, but the doctor will be in as soon as she can. Just sit tight.”
She dozed off even with the blinding lights. The gut-wrenching sobs of children worked their way into her dreams. Punctuated by the sounds of messy technical jargon, she dreamed of her childhood home and the time she’d split her lip open when she ran smack into the doorframe.
“Harper! What are you doing?” her mom had rushed to her while Harper’s best friend from kindergarten was frozen with an open mouth. The taste of blood, coppery, filled her mouth.
She’d started to cry, not from the pain, but for the attention and for the sheer wildness of it all.
“I … I …” she’d stammered.
“What the hell happened?” her mom had exclaimed and turned on her friend.
“We … we were playing tag, and she …”
“Harper!” her mom had said as she turned back to her. She examined the lip. “Do you know this might scar? Do you know how important your face is?”
A girlish scream pierced her brain. “You’re scaring the other patients,” a stern voice said. Her mom was gone and a bright light flooded through her eyelids.
Harper felt a firm, warm hand on her forearm. Her eyes fluttered open. A pretty Indian woman with tired black eyes looked down at her. “Sorry to disturb your sleep,” she said. “I’m Dr. Chatterjee.”
“Oh. Hi,” Harper said, her voice thick with sleep.
“Well, Harper, we have a few things to discuss.”
I’m dying, she thought ridiculously. “What, uh … what’s wrong with me?”
“If you mean why did you faint, I have a couple of theories. For one, you’re severely dehydrated. We’ll be getting a tube in you immediately to address that.”
“A tube? Not like a feeding tube, right? I mean, it’s just water …”
The doctor looked at her curiously. “Why would you ask about a feeding tube?”
Harper blushed. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m still kind of out of it—”
“Harper,” the doctor said gently. “I see a lot of models and actresses. This is LA. I know it’s trendy right now to dehydrate yourself to get that toned look all the time now, not just for photo shoots. But it’s dangerous. Especially for someone in your condition.”
“My condition?”
“You … you do know you’re pregnant, right?”
“What? How do you know? That can’t be—”
“It came back in the blood test. We can retest, but blood work is very accurate.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Harper said urgently. She grasped for the woman’s hands. “Please.”
“Harper, you’re a grown woman. And there’s doctor-patient confidentiality. I don’t intend to tell anyone, nor is it legal for me to do so. But … are you alright? I can have a nurse refer you to some pregnancy support organizations. All unbiased and many free or on a sliding scale.”
“Okay,” Harper said. Anything to shut the woman up. How can I be pregnant?
“Do you want me to call someone for you? Your emergency contact?”
“No!” Harper said immediately. “No. Thank you. I … my phone should be in my purse. I’ll take care of it.”
“If you’re sure,” the doctor said. “We do need to keep you here for awhile. Partially for observation, and partially to get your hydration levels back up. I’d also recommend you talk to one of the nutritionists on staff.”
“Nutritionists?”
“I can’t tell you much with just the blood work, but in my experience dehydration in a woman your age often goes hand in hand with malnutrition. It’s often an attempt to fit a certain mold of what women are supposed to look like. Given your height and bone structure … are you a model?”
“Was,” Harper said glumly.
“I know how demanding that industry can be,” the doctor said. “And I know what lengths women in that profession go to in order to maintain their figure. No matter what you decide to do about the pregnancy, I want you to meet with a nutritionist before you’re discharged.”
“Fine,” Harper said. She forced a smile at the doctor, the looked away until the woman exited through the curtain.
She dug her phone out of her purse. It was full of missed calls and texts from Sean. Hey, she texted. I’m okay, just getting fluids at the hospital.
What’s wrong? What happened?? Sean texted.
Her phone lit up with a call, which she silenced. Can’t talk now, nurses coming in, she said. Just dehydrated, that’s all. Should be released in a few hours.
Call me when you can? Sean asked.
Ok. Putting phone on airplane mode now to save battery.
She turned off the phone and closed her eyes.
What the fuck are you going to do now? she thought.
9
Sean
As soon as Harper pulled up to the building in a cab, Sean opened the glass doors to usher her in. He couldn’t read her expression behind the huge sunglasses she must have dug out of her purse. “Are you alright?” he asked.
She waved him away after she’d taken the rolled-up twenty out of his hand and handed it to the driver.
“Don’t run!” he’d called after her as she hurried back to the waiting yellow taxi.
“I’m fine,” she huffed. Harper stiffened and pulled away from his hand on her lower back, but she didn’t actively shoo him away.
“We’re taking the elevator,” he said when she veered toward the stairs. She opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut again.
He held the door open for her and she pulled off the sunglasses. A dark ring had settled in beneath each eye.
“What’s with all the blankets?” she asked.
Sean looked to the couch. Maybe he had gone overboard. It was piled high with all the extra blankets and pillows he could find—and considering Sam had gone above and beyond when furnishing the loft, there were plenty to be had. “I just wanted you to be comfortable.”
“I have a bed where I can be comfortable,” she said.
�
��No arguing. Get on the couch and I’ll make you some soup.”
“I’m not sick! I was just dehydrated—”
“All the more reason to have some soup.”
He set up Netflix to stream on the television and was pleased when he saw her begrudgingly dismantle the pile of blankets and pillows to hole up on the couch.
The little shop hadn’t had much variety with the soup, so he’d bought one of each flavor. He peeled open the chicken noodle soup, poured it in one of the white bowls, and started the microwave.
“What’s this?” she asked. Harper wrinkled her nose at it.
“Chicken noodle soup.”
“Great. Pasta in a broth.”
“Just eat what you can,” he said. God, she was an annoying sick person. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “It’s my lawyer, I have to take this,” he said. She waved him away as she carefully scooped just broth into the spoon.
“Hi,” he said quietly as he slipped away to his bedroom. “Please tell me you have good news.”
“Actually, I do,” T said. “It turns out the police officer you punched is letting you off the hook.”
“What? He’s not pressing charges?”
“Nope. Although, honestly it’s probably because his ego is bruised and he doesn’t want to waste time with all the paperwork and court time. LAPD has bigger fish to fry than you.”
“Uh, thanks? I guess,” he said.
“Just being honest. Here’s some more good news to cheer you up, all the other charges have been lowered to misdemeanors.”
“All of them?” Sean’s heart swelled, but he didn’t want to get too excited yet.
“All of them,” T repeated. “Once again, I think it’s the court’s lack of time and money to pursue them, not that the assault charge has been dropped. The other charges were kind of banking on that as a catalyst.”
“That great!” Sean said. “But what exactly does a misdemeanor mean?”
“Well, that’s the tricky part,” T said. “They come with a relatively hefty fine, though I get the sense that’s not a huge barrier for you.”
Sean stayed silent, waiting for the bomb to drop.
“Anyway, the repercussions kind of depend on what you plan to do. It might impact future job prospects, professional licenses, and in the future, child custody. Technically, misdemeanors don’t come with jail sentences most of the time, but you might go back to jail while we wait for everything to be resolved. That can be up to two months.”
“But I’m on bail.”
“That was only while we got to this part of the process,” T said. “At the moment, we’re in limbo.”
“Isn’t there, I don’t know, anything we can do? To get some of those dropped?”
T drew in a breath and Sean heard Harper laugh at something on the television. “Yes, actually,” she said. “If you could talk Ashton into dropping the witness statement, we have a really good shot.”
“Okay,” he said. Never gonna happen. “Thanks.”
“Sean! Let me know if you’ll be able to talk to him by Friday, alright?”
“Yeah, will do,” he said.
“You didn’t ask about the last good news.”
“There’s more?”
“An officer will be by later today to remove your ankle monitor.”
“That’s it?” He was shocked. Sean had already grown accustomed to the bulky little appendage.
“That’s it.”
“Thanks. For everything,” he said.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“And, hey, one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Could you maybe … make an overture to Ashton for me? See if he’d even be willing to see me. I, I don’t know. I have a feeling this isn’t going to go over well. But now that I’ll be able to leave the house soon, it’s worth a shot.”
“Definitely. I’ll have someone in the office connect with him later today. This really is your best bet for coming out of this in the clear. You’re lucky, you know that?”
“I have my doubts,” he said. “Thanks again.”
“No problem, you’ll hear from me soon.”
Sean sat on the edge of his bed and contemplated the situation with Ashton. No matter how many angles he tried, he couldn’t seem to get anything to sound right. And judging by what Eli and Manny had said, it didn’t sound like Ashton was in any kind of mood to be generous. He’d be lucky to talk to him when he wasn’t totally coked out of his mind.
Finally, Sean emerged from the bedroom. He crept up quietly to the couch and found Harper sleeping. All the noodles and most of the chicken remained in the bowl, but it seemed like she’d spooned out all of the broth.
She looked tiny and gaunt curled up on the couch. Maybe that was to be expected after spending so many hours at the hospital. I’ll make her eat more. And better. I have to, he thought to himself. Harper was beyond thin, even for a model. Her natural curves suggested a richness in her breasts and hips, but a lot of it was the natural splay of her bones. A touch of it was the small amount of muscle she put on at the gym, and she was simply blessed with those breasts.
Who are you to think you can handle this kind of restriction? He struggled with the word anorexia. Was that what it was? When did someone cross the line from health-conscious to obsessed? To a mental disorder?
Sean settled into the chair across from her. He remembered being a little boy and how his mother would sleep on the couch from noon onward, sluggish from alcohol. Eventually, she gave up the pretenses and went straight to bed after her lunchtime vodka.
Once, his father came home unexpectedly from a business trip. Sean was only seven years old, but he was aware of the sizzle in the air. His mother had been a semifunctional alcoholic, and had always arranged for the cleaners to arrive the day before his father returned. This time, she wasn’t prepared.
The house was a disaster. He and Connor weren’t quite old enough yet to be embarrassed. They reveled in the mess, at the idea that they could toss plates of snacks and their juices on the floor with zero repercussions.
For five days, their mother had only slumped out of the bedroom to go to the bathroom or refill her vodka. When their father walked in, he and Connor hadn’t bathed in five days, either. They wore the same pajamas. He could still recall the stink of it.
It was summer, and neither had any responsibilities. Their father, with steely eyes, gently set his briefcase on the foyer table. “Where’s your mother?” he asked them.
“In bed,” Connor said quietly.
“How long has she been shut up in there?”
“I don’t know …”
“How long, Connor?” his father boomed.
“Five days,” he said meekly.
Their father surveyed the mess of the great room. Without a word, he stalked to the bedroom. The sound of his expensive shoes made a clip-clop sound like a horse at the races.
Sean expected to hear screaming, a glass shattering, the usual sounds of what happened behind their closed doors. But there was nothing.
Instead, their father appeared in the bedroom doorway. Their mother was passed out in his arms. She was beautiful, even in such a state, like a Hollywood actress in the arms of her leading man.
“Where are you taking Mom?” Connor said, suddenly fueled with fear. He jumped up and pulled uselessly at his father’s arm. “Put her down!”
Their father kicked in his general direction until Connor gave up. “Knock it off, Connor, shit!” he yelled. “I’m taking her somewhere to rest for awhile. You both start cleaning up while I’m gone.”
It wasn’t until years later that Sean realized his mother had actually been taken to dry out. Those sessions never lasted long. She’d return, a clarity in her voice and eyes, and promise them over and over she was done drinking. “I just don’t feel like it anymore!” she would coo.
It never took more than a couple of weeks until she was back at the bottle. In time, Sean came to see these dry outs as times of p
eace and quiet. Often, his father would jet off to another business trip and hire a nanny who didn’t care what they did as long as they were quiet.
Still, his mother’s drinking was never quite as bad as that time. He shook his head and looked at Harper. Please don’t let her be that far gone.
He was pretty sure he could handle it, all of it. No matter how deep the eating disorder had wormed. You just have to watch her.
10
Harper
The heat of the radiated floors warmed her from the bottom up. Harper stood barefoot in the kitchen, a cut of uncooked chicken breast on the butcher block. Her little food scale sat beside it. Just the look of the sickly, pale flesh made her nauseated. She hoped for a revulsion so thick it would make her vomit. That would be nice, no cut-up knuckles for once. Of course, it never came.
Harper held her breath as she put the chicken breast in a Ziploc bag and weighed it. One hundred grams. She’d have to cut off a small piece to get it down to an even 150 calories.
She grimaced as she snipped off a piece of the meat and reweighed. Harper didn’t know if it was the pregnancy or the eating disorder that made this so difficult. It’s not like you haven’t had chicken breast before. White meat, relatively low calories, and all protein with no carbs. After shellfish, it was one of the best choices she could make.
“What am I doing?” she whispered aloud to the empty kitchen. She still didn’t know what she’d do about the baby. Why get attached to something that might not even survive? Her body was so fucked up, so malnourished, it wasn’t exactly the ideal environment for new life.
It wasn’t a surprise that so many celebrities had trouble conceiving. Why even young models opted for IVF or, better yet, surrogates. At 900 calories a day, she shouldn’t even be able to sustain herself long-term—yet alone someone else.
It would be better to just get rid of it now, she told herself. What was it, the size of a peanut, if that? She could get over an abortion at this point. But at the second trimester? The third? A miscarriage at that point might do her in. Even though she was aware of the life within her, without any bumps or kicks, she could still play pretend.
