by Amy Reed
“Yes.”
“What if you’re busy?”
“I’ll call you back,” she says. “They have this thing called voice mail these days. Have you heard of it?” It takes me a second to realize she’s making a joke. “And guess what?” she says.
“What?”
“You have homework tonight. Are you ready? First assignment: For fifteen minutes you have to write down everything you’re grateful for.”
“Everything?”
“Let’s practice. Think fast. Name three things you’re grateful for. Go.”
“Um, I don’t know,” I say. I panic. “My hair?”
“Your hair? Are you kidding me? What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about your sobriety?”
“Um, yes?”
“All right,” she says. “We have some work to do.” That’s when Eva comes up and hooks her arm through mine and tells me it’s time to go.
“This is my friend Eva,” I tell Val.
“Well, she’s lucky to have you,” Val says, and Eva smiles, and I can’t help but smile too. Val wants me to call her tomorrow, and Eva’s my best friend, and I guess this is the first time I’ve ever really been able to call someone that, and I don’t know, it just feels good. Like maybe I’m not so alone anymore. Like maybe I have someone to talk to when I feel like I’m the only person in the world.
“Bye,” I say, and start walking toward where the AC and the other kids are waiting for us.
“Hey, hold on a sec,” Val says. I turn around, and she’s standing there with her arms spread wide, and I guess that means I’m supposed to hug her. I let her put her arms around me, and I’m surprised that it doesn’t feel weird, just warm and safe and smelling kind of like cinnamon. “Hey,” she says. “I have one more thing for you to feel grateful for.”
“What?”
“You don’t ever have to get fucked up again.”
I smile and take a deep breath. It’s true. I never have to get fucked up again. And that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.
OLIVIA
Hi, guys!
I don’t know if this letter is going to get to you in time. Maybe you’ve all gone home already. I really wanted to write to you as a group, but I’m probably too late. Dad was going to ask Shirley if she would send everyone a copy of this letter, so I guess that’s better than nothing.
I’m sad that I didn’t get to say good-bye. It’s like I was with you one day, then all of a sudden I wasn’t, and now I don’t know if I’ll ever see any of you again. I try not to think about that. I try to pretend like I’ll just run into everyone at lunch, then it’ll be time for Group and we’ll all complain like we always do even though we secretly look forward to it. It’s weird being in this hospital with all these doctors and nurses who don’t know anything about me except what it says in my chart. It feels like I was just plucked out of my real life and placed in a hospital TV drama, and I’m an actor playing the “poor anorexic drug-addict girl.” Except it’s way more boring than anything you’d see on TV, and the doctors aren’t anywhere near as cute.
Mostly what I wanted to tell you is that I’m okay. And I’m sorry for scaring you. I don’t really remember anything, but the doctors told me it probably looked a lot like it does in the movies, with all the shaking and eyes rolling back in my head, plus I bit my tongue, so the blood probably freaked you out. When blood starts coming out of a person’s mouth in movies, it usually means they’re a goner. But don’t worry, it wasn’t anything a couple stitches couldn’t fix.
I’m leaving for a new treatment center tomorrow, and I’ll be there for at least three months. This one’s in sunny San Diego, and the brochure shows happy girls walking on the beach with a pink sunset behind them. Who knows? Maybe I’ll start surfing. (In case you couldn’t tell, that was my lame attempt at a joke.) This place specializes in dual diagnoses of eating disorders and addictions, and they have a specially trained medical staff on-site all the time. I’m feeling really hopeful about it, like maybe I actually have a chance to get better. To be happy. It’s funny, I just realized that my whole life, the whole time I’ve been trying to be perfect, I never once considered happiness as part of the equation. I guess it seemed so impossible I couldn’t even let myself fantasize about it. But now, I don’t know, things feel different somehow. Like impossible things might not be so impossible. Maybe that just means my antidepressants are working. (That was another joke, by the way.)
So Shirley ended up telling my dad and the doctors about my mom. Apparently doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t count if they think someone’s life is in danger. But don’t worry, Shirley, I’m not mad at you. Actually, it’s a relief to have everything out in the open. I got so used to carrying secrets around, I didn’t realize how heavy they are. It was literally killing me. I wish I had been brave enough to tell my dad the truth, and it wouldn’t have taken something like this to happen for everyone to start being honest. I guess I was afraid no one would believe me. Or worse, they wouldn’t care. Like believing me would cause too much trouble and it’d be easier for everyone to just keep pretending nothing was wrong.
But that’s not what happened at all. People can surprise you, I guess. Dad doesn’t want to give me all the “unfortunate details” as he calls them, but I do know that my mom is currently staying at her family’s estate in North Carolina instead of living in our house. At first I was worried about my little brother, but to be honest, the nanny and the maid are his real mothers and always have been. Dad won’t tell me if they’re getting a divorce, because he says I don’t need to worry about that right now, but I know he’s been talking to his lawyers because they keep calling and he has to “step out for a minute.” You’d think I’d be upset, or maybe even happy, but honestly I don’t feel anything. I don’t think I’ve thought of her as my mother for a long time. I guess if I feel anything, it’s relief. I’m sure there’s something deeper going on, and I’ll be in therapy about it soon enough, but for right now I just don’t want to think about it. I know that’s probably bad and Shirley would say I’m in denial or something, but seriously—I can only deal with so much at a time. Being in a hospital because I had an anorexic seizure is enough for right now.
My dad’s been here with me this whole time. I think this is probably the most time I’ve spent with him my whole life. I can tell he feels bad about it, because it’s like he’s trying to make up for it every way he can, like trying to be extra nice and attentive. But mostly we just play cards a lot. I think he’s letting me win. I’ve told him about you guys, and he thinks you’re all great (but Jason’s a bit of a smart-ass—sorry, Jason). He’s going to help me move to the new treatment center. Then I guess I’m on my own again for a while.
I know I should say something hopeful and positive about starting this new chapter in my life or whatever, and I am hopeful, but the truth is I’m also really scared. What if I’m too screwed up to fix? Even when I was with you guys, even though I really wanted to get better, I still couldn’t eat, even though I knew it was the right thing to do. I guess I can’t expect you guys to understand, but it’s like an addiction, only instead of drugs, I’m addicted to not eating. Well, I guess I’m addicted to both, really. God, I’m a mess. What if I’m so broken I can never do something as basic as feed myself? Do you realize how twisted that is? It amazes me sometimes that humans still exist. We’re just animals, after all. And how can an animal get so removed from nature that it loses the instinct to keep itself alive? Really, we should be extinct. Or at least I should.
I’ve been alone my whole life, but for some reason I’m really scared to be alone now. I’m scared to be without you guys. You all saved my life. You know that? I don’t know how to explain it quite right (and of course you know I’ve tried because this is probably the fiftieth draft of this letter). It’s like I used to be alone and I didn’t even care. I could have died and it didn’t really matter. But something about knowing you, something about you seeing me an
d paying attention to how I was feeling and what I was thinking, something about mattering to you—it made me start thinking that maybe I cared what happened to me too. And what if that doesn’t happen at the new place? I’m afraid the girls there won’t be anything like you. I’m afraid our friendships will drift away and we’ll lose touch and it’ll be like we never even met. But how can we forget each other after everything we’ve gone through together? It’s like we’re a permanent part of each other, even if we never see each other again. No matter what happens, we’re forever connected by this piece of our lives, this month we were forced together and shown things about ourselves we can never forget no matter how hard we try.
Shirley always talked about how important it is to be assertive about what you need, so here goes—I’d really like it if you’d write me letters (the old-fashioned kind with stamps because they don’t have Internet where I’m going). I know you’re all probably settling back into your normal lives, and you’re busy, but I hope you can just take a minute to tell me how you’re doing. Because I care about you and I want to know you’re okay. This is kind of embarrassing, but you’re the first friends I’ve ever really had, which is pretty sad, since you all probably hated me most of the time. But I want you to know that even when I was being a total bitch and not talking to anyone, I was still paying attention, and I was grateful for you the whole time. I haven’t had a lot of practice having friends, but I want you to know that I liked you all the moment I met you, and even if we lose touch, I’m pretty sure I’ll consider you my friends for the rest of my life.
Well, that’s about it. If I write any more, I’ll probably start crying, and I’m so tired of doing that. I hope you take care of yourselves and stay sober, because you deserve it. You really do. You deserve everything you want in life. Even if it’s hard to believe sometimes, even if you think you’re not good enough or you’ve screwed up too bad to deserve anything good, I know in my heart you deserve to be happy. I really do. Because you’re the best people I’ve ever known.
Love always,
Olivia
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For my agent, Amy Tipton, who continues to astound me with her strength and brilliance. This book would have been nothing without you.
For my editor, Anica Rissi, for always knowing the exact right thing to say. And for making me a mix CD of Weird Al Yankovic songs.
For my friend Kate Gagnon, for being such a gifted editor that she didn’t even have to read the manuscript to know how to help me figure out the ending.
For my husband, Brian Relph, for being my biggest fan, my best friend, and my home.
For Peanut the Wonder Dog, even though you don’t know how to read.
For Chandra, my Monday-night girls and bois, and the rest of my extended acronym family. You taught me what strength is. You loved me back to life.