You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  My mouth opened and shut.

  “Janine is an outside person with no connection to your life. She can give you a different perspective on what you’re experiencing. She can even help you understand why you always date losers and why you’re obsessed with working out. Losing weight is one thing, Rachelle. This has gone too far.”

  “It hasn’t gone far enough,” I mumbled.

  “You’re not even happy! We’re part of the Health and Happiness Society, Rachelle. I didn’t formulate the group to push you into an early grave. Happiness. That’s what we want to find. Not marathon trophies.”

  “Marathon trophies make me happy!”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “It will,” I growled.

  “The way losing over a hundred pounds has made you so happy? You’re not just chasing one more ghost?”

  “I’m happy!” I snapped.

  Bitsy rolled her eyes.

  Sharp pain shot through my bottom lip as I chewed on it. Analysis of my dating habits? Fine. They were decidedly sucky. Talking about exercise? Sure. Maybe I’d even concede that I exercised a lot. But I would not broach the topic of my life before my weight loss. Certainly not my father. Bitsy pulled to a stop at a curb and put her car into park. Her gaze bored into mine.

  “No way. I won’t do it. I will not go in there.”

  “We’re here.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “I’m not leaving until you do. I dare you to test my willpower, Rachelle.” Her expression hardened. “Because you will never win.”

  Twenty minutes of steely silence later, I trailed Bitsy up the sidewalk with a bitter scowl. I knew I didn’t have a chance of winning, but at least I’d put up a good fight. Lexie would be proud of me. I could hear her now. You lasted twenty minutes against Bitsy? Well done!

  My crutches thunk-thunked along with me, a painful staccato that matched my pounding heart. A therapist?

  Seriously?

  Janine’s office was in a nondescript brick building. A dove-gray sign planted in the grass near the sidewalk said Wings of Hope Counseling Services.

  “Wings of Hope?” I asked.

  “No judgments,” Bitsy said. “It’s a great place.”

  “I don’t want religion.”

  “It has nothing to do with God. That’s a dove on the sign. Let’s go. You don’t scare me with your acerbic comments, Rachelle. It’ll take a lot more than that for me to give you what you want instead of what you need.”

  I followed her inside the office. A silver-haired receptionist behind a glass front desk greeted Bitsy with a smile.

  “Welcome back, Bitsy.”

  “Sorry we’re late.”

  “No problem. Janine anticipated it after your warning.”

  “You knew I’d stall?” I asked.

  Bitsy scoffed. “Of course I knew. I paid for two hours just in case.”

  I shot her a scathing look. Did she really think of everything? As if she’d read my mind, she smiled. The muted, warm walls had a soothing effect, but I snorted at the tinkle of a waterfall in the corner. As if a zen atmosphere really helped. Everything about this felt wrong.

  “Before you see Janine today, would you mind filling out a few papers?” The receptionist smiled at me with bright-white teeth as she slid a clipboard across the counter. “Should only be a few minutes.”

  “Ah … that’s not necessary. I won’t be coming back.”

  Bitsy grabbed the clipboard. “Sure.” She pointed me to a chair. “Sit.”

  With a hot glare, I hobbled over to the plastic chair. Pen in hand, I skimmed a questionnaire. Rows of boxes with tiny text lined the page, each column alternating between shades of gray. Statements like I have thoughts of ending my life and I like myself ran down the left column, with the options of Never, Rarely, Sometimes, Frequently, and Almost Always on the right.

  Did I like myself? I quickly checked Rarely and then crossed it out for Never.

  Might as well be honest.

  After ten questions, my attention waned. I buzzed through the rest without caring. What did it matter? It’s not like I’d be back, anyway. The receptionist came around the desk and reached for the papers as I struggled to stand.

  “I’ll take that. Thank you.”

  A woman in a knee-length skirt and slate blazer stepped out of a room at the back with a warm smile. “Rachelle, it’s good to meet you. I’m Janine.” Streaks of blonde ran through her bobbed brown hair. She held out a hand. I reluctantly shifted my weight onto my left foot and accepted.

  “Hi.”

  Bitsy remained in her chair, magazine in hand. “Thanks Janine! I’ll be waiting when you come out, Rachelle.”

  “Wait. What? You aren’t coming in with me?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you control everything?”

  “You’re a big girl, Rachelle. You don’t need me in there. You just needed me to nudge you.”

  “This was your idea! You should have to suffer through it too.”

  She flipped another page of her magazine without looking up. “Ooh, quinoa with veggies!”

  Bubbling panic welled up inside me. Go in without Bitsy? Didn’t she know I needed her? Janine smiled when I turned back to her. I’d never felt so lost or confused in my life.

  And I hadn’t even started yet.

  “It’s going to be all right, Rachelle. My office is back here.” Janine motioned with a sweep of her arm. “If you want to follow, I’ll take you there. If you’re not comfortable, Bitsy can come in. And she will.”

  Bitsy’s gaze flickered up, but she said nothing.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “I can do this without her.”

  The idea of talking about anything made me want to vomit, but I followed the gentle tap of Janine’s heels into a room with a mahogany desk, an iMac, and several paintings of women. One caught my eye. A willowy mother bending over a young child, painted with broad lines of pearl and ebony. I turned away with a heavy swallow.

  Janine waved a hand toward a padded leather couch fifteen feet from her chair. “Have a seat.” The distance reassured me. I slumped into the seat and set the crutches aside, my hands as cold as ice. Her gaze dropped to my boot.

  “Bitsy told me about your ankle.” She grimaced. “I’m very sorry. Sounds quite painful.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sincerity in her tone couldn’t be denied; I made a mental note to stay wary. This woman had a confident air and the plaques on the wall to prove herself. She knew what she was doing.

  “I understand that you came because Bitsy made the appointment for you. I don’t usually take clients under these circumstances but decided to try it. Your situation sounds unique.”

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  “I can understand that. Therapy is good for anyone, really, regardless of past issues. Everyone could use some help achieving their goals.”

  Uncertain what to say, I just leaned back against the couch. My goal was taking a little nap right now.

  “Would you like to tell me about your upcoming marathon?” Janine asked. She rested her hands in her lap with an open expression. Could they train someone to look receptive and attentive? She said upcoming. Did she think it was still possible? Was this a trick to get me to talk? I cleared my throat.

  “It’s in August.”

  “Twenty-six miles is a lot to run. How far are you into your training?”

  “I’ve run a twelve-miler so far.”

  “With two months left, you’re well on your way.”

  How did she know that? My brow furrowed. “Do you run?”

  “Not that much anymore, but I have done a few marathons in the past. I still do a few half marathons and 10ks here and there. Six miles is a good base to maintain, I’ve found.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you want to run a marathon?”

  Something in the easy question struck a nerve. I sucked in a sharp breath, realizing what had happened. Whoa. She was
good. I’d been funneled right into talking to her without realizing it. I frowned.

  “Oh. Uh…”

  She blinked as if she didn’t notice the sudden chill in the air. Surely I wasn’t imagining it.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not really interested in being friends or chatting about marathons so you can get me to spill my childhood secrets. I don’t really want this to continue.”

  A bemused expression flitted across her face. “Do you always think people have an angle when they interact with you?”

  “Don’t they?”

  “I believe people are genuinely interested in learning more about others without getting something from it.”

  “You would get more business if I talked to you.”

  “And you would get clarity.”

  “Clarity?”

  “Who are you, Rachelle?”

  The straightforward way she asked caught me by surprise. Any other time, I would have brushed the question aside, but something about being in that room with her stopped me.

  “What?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I…”

  Words failed me. How was I even supposed to answer that? “I’m a twenty-five-year old that dropped out of college and still lives at home.”

  The bitterness in my own voice caught me by surprise.

  “But is that who you are?”

  Hadn’t I once been morbidly obese? Hadn’t I lost over a hundred pounds and still felt hollow inside? Hadn’t I once been a cosplayer that dressed up—sometimes daily—without regard to what people said about it? But I wasn’t those things all the time.

  Who was I?

  Janine waited without a change of expression. The air weighed heavy on my shoulders.

  “I don’t know.”

  She nodded once, her lips pursed, and said nothing else for what felt like an eternity. My chest tightened. Was this some kind of trap? Would every session feel like this? How could anyone tolerate something so … naked?

  “Clarity,” she said again. “Through our meetings, I can give you clarity. On a different note, Bitsy mentioned that you’ve lost a lot of weight. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “One hundred and ten pounds.”

  “That’s a big change. Losing that much weight can usher you into a new life. Some women grieve the loss of their old life. Some still believe they’re overweight.”

  My chest tightened. We could focus on my love of exercise or the marathon but not on my life before losing the weight. I shook my head.

  “Next topic.”

  “Would you like to tell me about your family?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your job?”

  “Dropped out of college. Next topic.”

  Janine folded her hands in her lap. “What would you like to talk about? How about we start there?”

  “Nothing. I’d like to talk about nothing.”

  She leaned forward. “Is there something you’re afraid of?”

  Skeletons rattled in my closets. Skeletons best left in the dark. I shoved off the couch and scrambled for my crutches.

  “I’m done.”

  Janine calmly stood. “Of course. You control this meeting. But I want you to know that there is no judgment. Just guidance and … clarity. Clarity into what’s bothering you. Clarity beyond that stretch of darkness that you can’t seem to find your way through.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what you do want?”

  My heart ached. How was I supposed to know? I’d never known what I wanted. Every time I chased it, it disappeared, a gossamer wisp in a barren landscape.

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  At a total loss, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “I want to be fat again.”

  I swung my crutches and hobbled out with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Chapter 4

  That’s It?

  The meeting with Janine simmered inside of me with fiery agitation long after I left her office.

  I kept seeing her open expression. Her amused smiles when I said something that should have been off-putting. Not that she was making fun of me, or anything. Just that she seemed like she knew something I didn’t and, like Bitsy, didn’t care if I gave her attitude.

  With a growl under my breath, I yanked the fridge open and pulled out a water bottle. The fridge door trembled after I slammed it, not realizing the strength of my own vengeance. I closed my eyes, sucked in a breath, and let it back out again. The smell of simmering onions and oregano filled the air, distracting me from my rage.

  “Pass me the ground beef, will you?” Mom asked.

  My eyes opened, and I saw Mom standing at the stove. I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I hadn’t even seen her there. Several seconds passed before I registered the fact that she was actually standing. Cooking. Doing something off the couch. She wore a gray robe today. It stretched across her wide shoulders, hinting at a dingy white house dress underneath. A fan stood in the window, pointed out to remove the heat from the stove, no doubt. Mom had set a chair against the far counter so she could rest in between stirs. I held onto the counter and hopped on my left leg toward the package of ground beef.

  “Sure.”

  I slid the unopened package toward her. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer without looking and cut into it. Was I imagining it, or was Mom humming?

  I leaned against the counter and cracked the lid off my water bottle before taking a swig of water.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  “Spaghetti.”

  “Ah.”

  Her favorite. No green beans or salad accompanied spaghetti here. Just a bowl large enough to be a serving bowl filled with buttery pasta, thick meat sauce, and the fresh tang of parmesan. My lips twitched. A small wedge of parmesan cheese sat on the counter near the grater, right next to the bulk-sized bag of brown sugar she always used to sweeten the sauce. Mom could be a total food snob sometimes. She’d buy frozen chicken nuggets and tater tots—and finish off an entire cookie sheet by herself in one sitting—but wouldn’t buy pre-shredded parmesan. Nor would dry herbs suit, either. When it came to Italian food, she went all fresh.

  “Smells good,” I said.

  She sprinkled a little salt into the simmering meat sauce but didn’t say anything. Next to it, a pot of water frothed. She tipped over a package of pasta into her hand, then cast the dry noodles into the pot. With strained breath, she backed up and carefully sat in the chair. It groaned beneath her weight. For several seconds, she was out of breath.

  My thoughts spun.

  “Hey Mom, who taught you how to cook?”

  Her brow furrowed into a heavy line over her eyes. She scratched at her cheek with stubby fingernails.

  “Just learned it.”

  “From Grandma?”

  Her expression darkened. “No.”

  I opened my mouth to ask something else but stopped. I’d never actually met my grandparents. It felt unnatural to even bring them up because Mom never spoke about them. Before I could say another word, she broke the silence.

  “It was my Aunt Bell.”

  Her words startled me; I almost forgot to respond. Instead, I took another drink and pushed myself back to sit on the counter, then propped my foot up onto it. If Mom was willing to talk, I was ready to listen. I’d never heard of anyone named Aunt Bell; I didn’t even know she had an aunt.

  “Bell was her name?” I asked.

  “Bella.” Mom stared at the stove top with a deadpan expression. “But I always called her Bell.”

  “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  Mom reached out and, using the edge of the sink as a handhold, slowly stood up. She shuffled over to the stove in tattered slippers. Today, her hair fell down her back in a braid. Rare. She normally just left it stringy on her shoulders. Although I noticed her lack of response, I didn�
�t point it out. Maybe she just didn’t want to talk about Bell.

  Whoever Bell was.

  “Well, you are an amazing cook,” I murmured. “Bell must have been too.”

  I felt a little pang in my stomach. I did miss Mom’s Italian food, especially when she attempted to mimic recipes from popular local restaurants. Lately, that had died down. Her body didn’t have the stamina to stand for too long. I wondered if it was coincidence that her fading work in the kitchen coincided with when I started to lose weight.

  Mom stirred the pasta, which had started to curl in the water, with her head tilted to the side. “I always have enjoyed being in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah.” My nose wrinkled. “Except for the dishes.”

  A wheezy sound came out of her. Was it a chuckle? A laugh? The strange noise made me realize I hadn’t heard her really laugh in a long time.

  “Found a new recipe book,” Mom said just as I was about to leave. I paused, even though her back was to me. We hadn’t talked about food—or maybe really talked at all—in months. Maybe even a year. A brief moment of hesitation rippled through me, and I stuffed it away. Instead, I planted my hands back on the counter and stayed put.

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a carrot cake that looks good. You eat healthy now. Maybe we could try it out.”

  There was a hint of yearning in her voice, almost a gentle pleading. Although carrot cake was far from healthy, there was something in her childlike words that I just couldn’t turn down. I didn’t usually like to mix my vegetables with pleasure. Preferred them straight. Roasted, with olive oil. But this?

  “Yeah,” I said. “Of course. I can add the ingredients to our next food delivery.”

  Her shoulders slumped a little. “I mean, maybe it’s not even good.”

  “Sounds good, Mom.”

  For her sake, I’d risk the cream cheese frosting.

  “I’ll look it over again, see if I even want it. I might be remembering it wrong.”

  “Okay. Well, whenever you decide to, I’d love to make it.”

  Mom didn’t say another word, and I could tell by the slope of her body and the way her head hung downward that she likely wouldn’t speak again. With a flick of her wrist, she turned off the boiling pasta and used a spatula to break up the simmering meat. For half a breath, I stared at the image, thinking of Bitsy.