Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  I don’t know what I can do to make things up to her. I wish I had a time machine, so I could go back and throw her the biggest, bestest birthday party ever. I’d get a karaoke machine, because Josie loves them, and we’d sing “Love Is an Open Door,” even though karaoke is the most embarrassing thing ever.

  I’d even go out to eat for her, like Laura’s doing. (Her family is going to Frankie J’s, a super-scary Italian restaurant whose portions are as big as my head. Maybe bigger.)

  “What does a big plate of pasta feel like to you?” Willow asked me in our session.

  “Like I’m on a roller coaster,” I answered. “Like my stomach is dropping out of my body and the whole world is falling away.” I thought for another minute. I like metaphors. So does Mrs. Monahan. She’d be proud of me. “You know how there’s no gravity in space?”

  Willow nodded, all therapist-like. She just needed a sweater with elbow patches on it. Or a pipe. Except those are gross.

  “You know how whenever astronauts are floating in space, they’re tethered by a cord? A really strong one, so it doesn’t break and send them into the void forever? When I think about eating at Frankie J’s, it’s like I’m in outer space. But instead of a cord, there’s an elastic band. One of those really thin ones that break all the time, like on cheap Halloween masks.”

  I was sure Willow was going to laugh at my metaphor. I stared at her carpet. It’s dark red with yellow dots, like bits of gold are embedded in there.

  “Keep going,” she prompted.

  “If I eat something scary, that band will snap. I’ll be in space.” I whispered the last part.

  “What’s so scary about outer space?”

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “It’s outer space. Duh. You keep floating forever and ever and you can never get back home and then you die.”

  “But what if you don’t die?”

  “That’s a silly question,” I said. “Of course you die. You can’t survive in outer space. It’s dark and bleak and there’s no one else around. There’s no food.”

  Willow raised her eyebrow at the word food. She didn’t say anything, though. I bet there’s a special class in shrink school called How to Be Quiet to Best Unnerve Your Patients. I bet Willow aced that class.

  “But what if you don’t die?” she asked again. “What if outer space isn’t dark and scary? What if it’s just that no one you know has reported back after their elastic snapped?”

  I looked up from the carpet.

  “What if it’s beautiful in space?” Willow asked. “Full of supernovas and exploding stars and brilliant colors? What if it’s the most wonderful place in the world, but you’re too scared to release your tether and find out?”

  I wanted to ask her what colors were out there and how bright they were. But all I could feel was the elastic band snapping and sending me hurtling into the darkness.

  “What if it is dark and cold, though?”

  “Isn’t it like that now?” Willow asked. “So why not try for a supernova? You have nothing to lose.”

  DAY SEVENTEEN: WEDNESDAY

  Ali did crunches again last night.

  Ali sounded like she was dying again.

  I have to do something.

  * * *

  I told Willow about the crunches. I told her about me and I told her about Ali. I almost chickened out. I felt like I was going to faint. But I did it.

  Willow told me she was proud of me for admitting what I’d done and asking for help.

  She said that this, more than anything, told her I was on the “road to recovery.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me anything,” Willow said. “You could have kept it a secret, hid it in the shadows where it would grow to be more fierce and dangerous.” Willow was smiling so big I bet it hurt her jaw. “You know what you are, Riley?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a superhero. And you’re saving yourself.”

  I thought of all the comic books Brenna reads and all the kick-butt heroines in them. I imagined myself in a cape, my feet planted on the ground, my fist raised to the sky.

  Superheroes aren’t weak. Neither am I.

  “Is Ali going to get in trouble?” My voice was shaking. “Because that’s something superheroes probably don’t do. They don’t betray their friends or break promises.”

  “Real friends break promises when it’s important. Especially when someone’s life is on the line. You’re helping Ali by telling me,” Willow said. “That’s my promise to you.”

  DAY EIGHTEEN: THURSDAY

  They switched Ali’s room last night. The counselors told us she was moving across the hall and wouldn’t answer any of our questions. I know they’ve confronted her, though, because they have a staff member checking her room every fifteen minutes at night.

  Ali hates me. She keeps looking at me like I’m a slab of steak and she’s a hungry tiger.

  Even dealing with Talia would be better than this. At least outside of the hospital I’d be doing other stuff besides eating. In here, that’s all there is: food and emotions and crying.

  The world is going on without me.

  I think my drawing is getting better, at least. I’ve been doing it all the time, in and out of art therapy. I’ve drawn all the girls in here. I’ve drawn them all more than once, actually, in different poses and in different lighting. Mom was right, too. I was bad at shadowing. That’s why my noses always looked strange. But now that I’ve drawn and redrawn and experimented, I’m getting better at it.

  I’m not a failure. I’m a work in progress.

  Maybe I can work hard and take that class with Emerson and then take more classes and get better and better and someday become a professional artist. How cool would that be? I don’t have to display in Mom’s gallery, either. There are tons of other galleries and tons of other paths to take. I just have to find my path.

  I can’t be an artist with an eating disorder, though. Art is all about trying new things, exploring the world and capturing those emotions. I don’t have emotions when I’m sick. I’m too scared to explore anything when I’m focused on my body.

  I need to be free to live my life.

  I can’t control my body and be an artist. I can’t control my body and be me.

  Mom and Julia came to visit tonight. Mom tried to convince me to ask for a pass—she wanted us to go out to eat together—but there’s no way I’m ready for that yet.

  “You’re doing so well!” she said.

  I’m not doing that well, though. The idea of Mom staring at me while I stare at a menu makes my heart race faster than it does when I run the 400 meter. What if I order more food than they usually have me eat in here? What if the salad comes with dressing already on it? What if Mom pressures me to order dessert and it’s delicious and I eat and eat until it’s gone? I won’t be able to run to burn off the calories, and if I throw a fit or get anxious, Mom will be disappointed.

  Julia brought a bunch of board games instead. We played Settlers of Catan and Ticket to Ride and King of Tokyo. King of Tokyo is boring with three players, so Brenna and Laura joined us. Brenna got so into it she started jumping up and down and pretending to be Godzilla whenever it was her turn. It was so funny. At first Laura acted embarrassed by us, but I could tell she had fun, too. Her boyfriend hasn’t been visiting or returning her e-mails, so she’s been a super grump lately.

  I get that. It’s lonely in here.

  It’s like that lost city of Atlantis, the one that sank into the ocean, never to be seen again. Some explorers think it’s a real thing and spend their entire careers searching for the gleaming towers beneath the surface. Most people think it’s a myth, though. If Atlantis was real, the world has forgotten it ever existed. Everyone else has gone on with their lives. Made new friends. Moved on.

  Meanwhile all of us underwater people are struggling to swim up to the surface. Here I am! Find me! See me!

  At least Julia is still searching for Atlantis. She didn’t talk about my body at all
—unlike Mom, who kept examining me like she was a human X-ray machine. Julia talked about TV instead. Apparently this new show premiered last night that everyone in her class is “totally obsessed with.” She told me about the main character and his magic powers and the boy he likes and the girl who likes him and how “the scene with the shapeshifter was sooooooooo cool.”

  I listened the whole time and didn’t even laugh at all the funny faces Julia was making. I bet I earned major big-sister points for that. Not like the negative seven million points I’ve earned in the past year, when I never said congratulations after a good meet and never had time to help Julia with her homework. After a while, Julia started tiptoeing around me like I was a bomb about to erupt. She didn’t ask me to do anything with her.

  Julia was too busy growing her awesome life.

  I was too busy shrinking mine.

  Today was different, though. Today we acted like sisters. Julia didn’t talk about gymnastics. I didn’t talk about food. She treated Brenna and Laura like normal people, too, not circus freaks.

  At the end of their visit, Mom sent Julia into the hallway to wait for her. After she left, Mom put her arm around me. I snuggled into her side. Half of me was afraid she was going to jump away like Emerson did or start chiding me for being too thin. The other half was glad to have my mom here.

  I pretend I’m not scared, but I really am. I’m scared a lot. I just want everyone to think I’m strong.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

  “Riley!” Mom looked so shocked that I thought she was mad at me. I thought she was going to yell. Or even worse, say how disappointed she was that I’m not all the way better yet.

  She didn’t.

  “Honey, I’m not even the smallest bit mad at you.” Mom tilted my chin up so I was looking into her eyes. It’s what she does when I’m in trouble and she wants me to make eye contact. That’s why I didn’t believe her.

  “You’re not lying?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” Mom said. “I promise.”

  “But I lied to you.” I felt the tears welling up. I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t be weak. I had to show Mom I was strong. “I lied and I snuck around.”

  “You did,” Mom said. “You made some mistakes, like all kids do.”

  “Julia doesn’t make mistakes,” I mumbled.

  Mom laughed. “Oh, yes, she does. Julia talks back and messes up her room and—”

  “And messes up her vault? That’s what I heard you say last month. That she’s not working hard enough.”

  “Oh, Riley.” Mom pulled away and took a deep breath, then hugged me again. “I don’t care about Julia’s vault. Or Julia’s scores. Or your weight.”

  “You care about your weight,” I said. “And you talk about gymnastics all the time.” I wanted to say something about my art, but I couldn’t get there quite yet. It would hurt too much if Mom confirmed that she judged my talent. I’d be too nervous if she asked to see what I’m working on. I’ll save that talk for later.

  “I do watch my weight,” Mom said. “I diet sometimes. But that’s me, not you. We’re different people. You have to remember that.”

  Of course I know we’re different people. Mom’s forty-two and I’m twelve. Mom has gray hair and I have pimples. She likes boring documentaries and I like action movies.

  That doesn’t mean I’m okay with her dieting, though.

  This is the kind of stuff we talk about in Assertiveness Group: Speaking up when we want something from a family member. Putting our needs into words. Heather worked on it with us yesterday:

  Brenna practiced asking her sister to stop making fun of her.

  Meredith practiced telling her dad that ballerinas are athletes, too.

  I practiced telling Mom and Dad that I wanted them to pay more attention to me.

  I rehearsed looking them in the eye and making my voice firm but not loud.

  I rehearsed sitting up straight and squaring my shoulders.

  I did none of those things today.

  I didn’t tell Mom that her diets make me want to diet. I didn’t tell Mom that when she talks about losing weight, I want to lose weight. That even though I know weight loss isn’t a competition, I always feel like it is. I always want to win.

  “Okay,” I said instead. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Good.” Mom’s phone buzzed. Her fingers tapped away. “Hold on, it’s your father.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “One sec.” More tapping. “Sorry, honey, he had to go. He sends his love, though.”

  “Why can’t he tell me himself?” It would take one minute of his day. Twenty seconds even.

  “He has a meeting, I think.”

  I’m more important than a meeting. But I didn’t say that to Mom. I wanted her to go home. I wanted to be alone.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.” I couldn’t say anything else, but I could say that. Maybe someday I’ll learn to say more.

  “I love you, too, honey. You’re doing so well. You look healthier.”

  My heart stopped. I literally felt it stop. For one heartbeat of a moment I ceased to exist. I hovered outside myself, hearing Mom’s words as my body went numb.

  Healthy.

  Does that word mean the same thing to me anymore? Does it mean that I’m not special? That I’m weak? Or does it mean that I’m … healthy?

  Full of health.

  Not about to die.

  The staff here doesn’t talk about our bodies. They don’t tell us we look “good” or “healthy” or “better.” They talk about our personalities instead. Our smiles. Our talents.

  “Brenna, I love how excited you were when you talked about your trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter!”

  “Meredith, that story was hilarious.”

  “Aisha, I can tell you’re a great friend.”

  “Laura, that insight was fantastic.”

  There’s nothing to decode because we don’t talk about weight. We talk about how we feel about weight, but not about how much we weigh. Mom doesn’t know that rule, though. She doesn’t know that she’s pushed my brain into a whirlpool.

  I tried to use my healthy voice. I tried to stop my thoughts before they turned into urges by picturing a big red STOP sign in my mind.

  Being healthy is good. Being healthy means I’m not sick. It means I can take that art class with Emerson. It means I can go home.

  But what if I go home and Mom’s on a diet? What if I show her my newest drawings and she tells me they’re awful? What if nothing changes but me? Will I be able to keep going, or will I slide back into sickness?

  I don’t want to be sick forever. I feel happier now. My body doesn’t hurt as much. I can concentrate. I read three whole chapters in my book this afternoon without getting distracted. I can probably do schoolwork now.

  I don’t want to go back to where I was before.

  DAY NINETEEN: FRIDAY

  I ate ice cream and a hamburger at lunch today. I tried to do what Heather taught us in Mindfulness Group, to focus on the sensation of the food and how it tasted, but it was hard. I kept thinking about Ali and whether she’s plotting her revenge. If she’ll put poison into my food or get all the other girls to turn against me. If they’ll hate me like Josie does.

  Maybe that’s what’s always going to happen. People will be nice to me … until they realize what I’m really like. How boring and un-special I am. Then they’ll abandon me. They’ll find new friends and new things to do.

  I kept thinking about Mom and how she refuses to stop dieting.

  I kept thinking about everything wrong in my life. Then I felt guilty about feeling so angry. Compared to some people, I have small problems. I have a home. I have money to buy things. I’m not abused.

  I still hurt, though.

  I tried to think about how the ice cream was creamy and cold.

  How the mint was sharp on my tongue.

  How the hamburger
was juicy and the lettuce crunched in my mouth.

  I didn’t do a good job, even without Ali there to stare at me.

  All I can think about is how I shouldn’t have eaten them. How my body feels different. But body changes are okay, right? It’s okay for my body to find where it’s meant to be.

  Right?

  Ice cream and hamburgers are normal. Not freaking out about them is normal.

  Right?

  Willow says “normal” is eating when you’re hungry and stopping when you’re full. Eating what you want when you want it and listening to your body. It’s eating too much sometimes because you really like oatmeal cookies. It’s not eating a big breakfast because you’re in a hurry but then making up for it with a bigger lunch. It’s salad and French fries and broccoli and meat sauce. It’s parties and treats and being honest.

  But if that’s normal, then the world isn’t normal. Mom weighs herself all the time. Talia and Camille are always talking about their “thigh gaps.” Even Josie tries to find the best angle for selfies so she doesn’t look fat.

  How can I eat “normally” when everyone else is doing the complete opposite? How can I eat a full meal for lunch while everyone around me is having a salad? I can’t eat five times as much as everyone else. I just can’t.

  This all makes me so angry. The world won’t change. My family won’t change.

  My face is hot and my breath is coming fast. The medication they put me on in here has been helping with my anxiety, but today I feel like someone lit a firecracker in my chest. It’s sizzling and sparking and about to burst any second.

  * * *

  I checked my e-mail again. Emerson still hasn’t written to apologize for acting weird. There was nothing from Josie, either. All I had was an e-mail from L.L.Bean, from when Mom used my e-mail to buy herself a new pair of slippers.

  Even my junk mail isn’t for me.

  The more I think about Emerson, the madder I get. I’m not contagious. She doesn’t need to tiptoe around the hospital like she’s going to get chicken pox or break something. (Or break me.)