Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  They didn’t trust me with paint back then. They don’t trust me with food now.

  Maybe they never will.

  The thought made me want to cry. It made me want to throw the jug of syrup against the wall and watch the sticky syrup drip onto the floor. That’s when I realized the truth: My parents may never see me as recovered. They might always see me through disease-shaded glasses.

  “Maybe I’m not better.” I shoved my plate away and ran up the stairs.

  “Riley! Come back here now. You have to eat! Riley!” Mom’s words trailed me like a puppy dog yapping at my heels, but I didn’t go back down.

  I’m not going back down.

  * * *

  I don’t know what to say to Mom anymore. She thinks that recovery is the only thing we should talk about. Doesn’t she understand that I’m still Riley? I’m more Riley now than I was before. I want to talk about drawing and what I’ll be doing at school for the rest of the year. I want to talk about what movies I want to see and how old Mr. Tanner down the street dyed his white hair green. I saw him walking his dog and did a double take. Julia and I laughed for about ten minutes straight. She snort-laughed twice in a row.

  Julia’s talking to me normally, at least. We watched a bunch of movies this morning and shared popcorn and juice for a snack. She didn’t mention my body once. She asked about my friends at the hospital. (Mom winced when Julia called them that.) She told me her best friend, Grace, got a pet pig and showed me pictures. It’s a way cute pig.

  But every time Julia distracts me, Mom jumps in and accuses me of doing or saying or feeling something wrong. She makes me feel wrong. Until I came back home, I thought I was doing better. But if I am, why couldn’t I eat breakfast? The second they let me out of the hospital, I screwed up.

  I looked down on Brenna for not trying hard enough, but here I am, too. Proving that I’m still sick, too.

  My room is the way it was before. The creak of the floor and the cars driving by outside sound the way they did before. I guess I’m the way I was before, too.

  I want to go back to the hospital. Where they make the decisions for me. Where people understand how my brain works. Where my sick self belongs.

  DAY FORTY-THREE: MONDAY

  I didn’t confess about the pancakes until halfway through my session with Willow. I didn’t want to say anything, but the secret was a lump in my throat, cutting off my air supply and choking me.

  “I freaked out at breakfast yesterday. I didn’t eat anything. Not even a bite.” I squeezed my eyes together like a little kid playing hide-and-seek. If I couldn’t see Willow, she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t tell me what a failure I was.

  Instead, she told me she was glad.

  “Good. I was waiting for that slip.” Willow was about to say something else, but I interrupted her.

  “You were waiting for me to fail? Was everyone taking bets? Putting money into a jar to see when poor Riley would do something wrong? You don’t believe in me that much?” I felt like a snowball rolling down a hill, picking up speed and anger by the second.

  “Whoa, hold on!” Willow held up a hand. Her white shirt had a sweat stain under her right armpit. I stared at it. The stain was really obvious. Why hadn’t Willow noticed it when she’d gotten dressed? Had anyone else noticed and not told her? Would she smell if I got closer?

  I’d way rather think about smelly armpits than about how much of a failure I am.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Willow didn’t sound mad. Was she faking it? She had to be faking it. She had to be mad.

  “Then what did you mean?” I asked. “Why did you expect me to relapse?”

  “You didn’t relapse, Riley. You slipped. There’s a big difference.”

  Then, as usual, Willow went on to be her super-smart, super-capable, super-annoyingly right-all-the-time self. And as usual, I listened and learned and tried to become a better person.

  (I’m noticing a pattern.)

  Apparently slips are one-time things, like skipping a meal. Running an extra mile or weighing myself. Slips are something I can come back from. Mistakes I can learn from.

  “That’s why I’m glad you had a slip while you were at home,” Willow said. “Because now we can analyze why you got upset at breakfast and what you can do in the future when those same triggers come up. Because they will, again and again. And if we can’t figure out how to change your reactions, that’s when you’ll relapse. That’s when you won’t be able to pull yourself back from the edge.”

  I pictured myself teetering at the edge of the Grand Canyon, my arms windmilling in the air, a bunch of pointy rocks below me.

  I don’t want to relapse.

  So I worked with Willow. I was more honest than I’ve ever been.

  I told her about how it felt like Mom was forcing food on me. How even though I had fun with my friends, I feel like a stranger in my own life. How Dad spent all Sunday morning in the basement fixing his bike. I didn’t even know he had a bike. Maybe he started a new hobby while I’ve been away. Maybe he rides his bike every single day now and it’s his one true passion. Maybe not, though. I bet he was trying to avoid me.

  Then I told Willow how Dad gave me a hug when he dropped me off and told me he was proud of me. How I showed Mom one of my drawings and she said it was good. How awesome Emerson and Josie were at dinner, and how I’d forced myself to go back in to the art show.

  “Failures and successes,” Willow said. “I’d say you had a fabulous pass overall.”

  Maybe I did.

  We figured out a plan then: How I can speak my mind in the future and who to reach out to when I’m anxious. How to block out the unhelpful stuff Mom and Dad do and focus on what I need to do instead. How I’ll have a therapist and a nutritionist when I leave here who’ll listen to me, just like Willow does now.

  How I’m allowed to make mistakes. How it doesn’t mean I’m weak. How it doesn’t mean Brenna was a failure. How it’s part of the process and that with every struggle I overcome, I’ll get stronger.

  How the bad body image won’t last forever.

  I laughed at that last one. It seems impossible that I’ll ever be happy with my body.

  “It is possible.” Willow’s lips curled into a smile. Her eyes twinkled. “Take it from me.”

  I’m not sure what Willow meant by that. She didn’t say anything else, and when I pressed her for more, she told me our time was up.

  I think Willow might mean that she’s recovered.

  That she’s proof that recovery is possible.

  Cool.

  DAY FORTY-SEVEN: FRIDAY

  I really have to be strong now. Because it’s my turn to be discharged.

  They told me this morning. We’d just finished art therapy and I had colored chalk all over my black yoga pants. I’m basically only wearing yoga pants now. Those and leggings. Anything with an elastic waistband. That way I don’t have to suck in my stomach while I try to fasten a button that doesn’t want to be fastened. I don’t have to feel the rough fabric of jeans rubbing against my oversize thighs. I don’t have to think about the concept of skinny jeans.

  I still miss my skinny jeans. I miss a lot about before, but I’m trying to remember that I’ll be getting so much more in the future.

  Now the future is a lot closer than I thought it’d be.

  The doctor in charge of the program told me I’m not leaving because of insurance. I’m not leaving because I got in trouble. I’m leaving because they think I’m better.

  Better.

  It’s a single word, but it holds a dictionary full of meanings:

  Better means I don’t worry about my weight.

  Better means I don’t worry about Talia making fun of me.

  Better means I don’t worry at all.

  I worry all the time. So how can I be better?

  Willow said it’s okay to worry. She said my fears are perfectly normal and I’m still on a journey. It feels like I’ve been on a journey forever, but I guess
she’s right. I may have to travel further, but at least I’ve started.

  I keep trying to wipe the chalk off my pants, but it’s not all going away. It’s smudged in there, a faint cloud against the black fabric. There’s a snag in the fabric, too, one I’m picking at every few seconds. The thread is unraveling. Now there’s a hole.

  I’ve worn these pants a lot. I probably need new ones. I probably need a whole new wardrobe. Clothes to fit my new body.

  Clothes to fit the new me.

  DAY FORTY-EIGHT: SATURDAY

  I have five days left. They kick you out fast around here.

  Today Mom took me out on pass to visit with a therapist near our house. I had to tell the new lady all about me and Julia’s gymnastics and Talia’s mayonnaise crusade and even Ali and the brownies. (Ali and the Brownies. That’s my next band name.)

  I told her about what I used to do and what I’m afraid of. I talked so much I bet I’ll have no voice tomorrow.

  Dr. Silverman was okay. She’s young, with chin-length hair and a tattoo of a laurel wreath on her ankle. She had a cup of cherry lollipops on her desk, like it was a pediatrician’s office, and even though I felt like a little kid taking one, I still did. I like lollipops. And cherry is my favorite.

  Dr. Silverman (she told me to call her Margaret, but I kept forgetting) had one of those fountain thingies on her desk, the kind with pebbles and running water. I had to pee so badly by the end of my session. Dr. Margaret let me go by myself, though, and I didn’t have to count. She treated me like an actual person.

  So did Mom. In the car, we talked about school and how excited (really!) I am to do schoolwork again. We talked about how annoyed Mom was that none of her friends from book club ever read the book.

  “They want to gossip the whole time!” Mom threw up her hands, then quickly put them back on the steering wheel. “I mean, I like to talk, but I like talking about books, too! Can’t we have a balance?” I giggled. Mom giggled.

  Maybe we can have a balance, too.

  DAY FORTY-NINE: SUNDAY

  We got a new patient today. Her name’s Olivia and she’s from New York City. She’s wearing fancy designer jeans that make her legs look like matchsticks and has a shiny purse that probably cost more than Mom’s and Dad’s cars combined. The purse is orange and reminds me of the plastic pumpkins we take trick-or-treating.

  Jean took the purse right away, though, like she took my phone when I got here. Olivia protested for like five minutes. I wonder if I used to sound like that.

  Olivia sounds annoying.

  She sounds scared.

  I want to give her a hug and tell her it’s going to be okay. I want to tell her that they might seem mean here, but they really want to help. That she’s going to hurt at first, but she’ll feel better soon.

  When I tried to talk to Olivia, though, she wrinkled her nose like I smelled bad. Which I don’t. I took a shower and put on body spray this morning, the same as any other day. I smell like soap and vanilla. Then Olivia looked me up and down and put her fingers on her chin like she was a fancy art critic appraising a new acquisition. Like Mom does when she’s cultivating her gallery.

  Maybe Olivia hates the way I look.

  Maybe she doesn’t like my body.

  For a few seconds, I started hating my body, too.

  Then I remembered the cool thing about art: everyone likes different styles. There’s a place out there for every type of art. It all belongs somewhere. I may never have my portraits displayed in Mom’s gallery, but they might end up in another one someday. Especially when I get better at art.

  Especially when I get better.

  Mom doesn’t have to display my art to like it.

  I don’t have to win awards to keep drawing.

  My pictures belong, just like I belong.

  I hope Olivia learns that she belongs, too.

  I drew a picture of Olivia this afternoon. I added a superhero cape and gave it to her after snack. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s this for?”

  “To remind you of what you can do,” I said.

  Brenna looked at the superhero and smiled. I smiled back.

  DAY FIFTY: MONDAY

  Three days left.

  Mom and I visited a nutritionist today: Stephanie. She had tubs of plastic food, too. And a scale. Two scales, actually: one for food and one for me. The scale for me was one of those old-fashioned ones they have at the doctor’s office, where you have to slide the tab back and forth until the scale balances. I wonder if she’ll make me get on it all the time. I wonder if she’ll tell me my weight.

  I don’t want her to.

  I do want her to.

  I wonder how much I’ve gained.

  Mom and I went out for lunch before she took me back to the hospital. When we got to the restaurant, Dad and Julia were there. Dad had skipped work and dismissed Julia from school so we could have a family lunch.

  Mom didn’t order a salad, either. And she got a regular soda. I gaped at her.

  “Don’t just stare, Riley. Put some food in that mouth.” Mom was smiling, though. She was making a joke!

  Before I would have started crying. I would have acted all offended and stormed off.

  Today I laughed. I ate my sandwich. I listened to Dad talk about the five deer he’d seen on his bike ride to work this morning. (Huh. Maybe he is into biking now.) I listened to Julia talk about how annoying it is that she can’t go on the team trip to Six Flags. Because Mom and Dad are spending money on me instead? I don’t know. All I know is that Mom changed the subject. She asked me a question instead of talking about gymnastics. Then Dad asked me another one.

  “I’m okay.” I whispered it to myself at the end of the meal, when I finished my last sip of milk and wiped my mouth. “I’m going to be okay.”

  Mom overheard me. “Of course you are, honey.” She squeezed my hand. “Smooth sailing from here on out, right?”

  Mom still doesn’t get how hard this is going to be. She might never get it. But maybe she doesn’t have to.

  She’s not me. I’m not her.

  I’m not Talia or Julia or Josie or Emerson.

  I’m Riley.

  Riley’s pretty awesome.

  DAY FIFTY-ONE: TUESDAY

  Two days left. I can’t do this. Not on my own. I’m not strong enough.

  What if I forget that it’s okay to gain weight? What if I start thinking that fat is bad, even though I know it’s not? What if the world turns up the volume on its “skinny is beautiful” messages and I forget that loud doesn’t equal true?

  What if I forget how to love myself?

  I keep tapping my foot and wiggling around. How could anyone think I’m “better”?

  I’m a total fraud.

  DAY FIFTY-TWO: WEDNESDAY

  One day left. When I got here almost two months ago, a week sounded like an eternity. A day sounded like forever. A minute seemed like too much to endure. I’ve been here for fifty-two days now. That’s almost a full term in school. That’s almost a full track season.

  That’s 1/7 of a year, almost 1/84 of my life.

  I feel like I just got here, though, like I just walked in the door with Mom. Like I just met Ali, asleep in the bed next to me. Except she was just IV Girl then. She hadn’t betrayed me yet.

  I hadn’t met Brenna.

  Josie still hated me and Julia was the Gold Medal Daughter.

  I was skinny then. I was scared.

  I’m not as skinny now, but I am still scared. But it’s a different kind of scared. Just like now I’m a different kind of strong.

  Instead of being scared of what could happen and probably won’t, I’m scared of what I know will happen. That’s why I’m making a plan about how to deal with everything. We talked about it in our family meeting today, when Mom and Dad came to meet with me and Willow.

  Willow told them how hard I’ve been working.

  Willow told them she was proud of me. I waited for Mom to say she was proud of me, too, but she was che
cking her voice mail. Her voice mail! In the middle of a family meeting right before my discharge! My chest tightened. My fists clenched. My stomach rolled.

  I took a deep breath, though, and told Mom how she was making me feel. Willow stopped Dad before he could tell me I was being disrespectful. I didn’t cry, and Mom apologized. She said she was waiting for a call from the gallery. The basement had flooded and she’d left before the plumber showed up. My mad transformed to grateful like Clark Kent stepping out of a phone booth. Mom left a gallery emergency for me. That’s a big deal.

  It’s also a big deal that I didn’t jump to conclusions. Progress!

  I think having Willow there helped all of us not get so upset at one another. Willow won’t be at home, though. That’s where my relapse prevention plan comes in. We typed it up and signed it and everything. It has stuff like who I can reach out to for help and what my warning signs are.

  It looks fancy. We’re going to hang it on the fridge.

  Now I just have to follow it.

  DAY FIFTY-THREE: THURSDAY

  One last weigh-in.

  One last vitals check.

  One last breakfast.

  One last meeting with Willow.

  She cried. I cried. We hugged. I wondered if she could feel the new fat on my stomach, the layer that covered my body like a snowsuit, but I pushed the thought away.

  Snowsuits are warm and comfy. My snowsuit fits me perfectly.

  Willow says she believes in me. She says I’m strong and capable and smart and funny. She says the world had better watch out, because I’m coming for it. Willow’s a cheeseball.

  (I love her for being a cheeseball.)

  One last group, which turned into a going-away party for me. The other girls made streamers, like we did for Willow’s party. They drew a picture of a cake on poster board and hung it on the wall. We played “Pin the Candle on the Cake” with stickers. I did awful. I’ve always been bad at that game. When I was seven, I almost walked into the pool at a birthday party.