“You lied!” I say. “I do have a choice.”
Cassie flops back on the bed, pouting, arms crossed over her chest. “That’s right. Leave me alone. Go have a real life. My bad for screwing up.”
I hold out the glass. “Look through this. Maybe you can come back.”
“It doesn’t work that way. There are some laws in physics that are real, you know. I can’t change them. I’m stuck here forever.”
“Stuck in the middle? In between worlds?”
“Yeah, that’s the classic definition of a ghost, isn’t it?”
“Do you want to be all the way dead?” I ask.
“Yes.” She shakes her head, ignoring the tears in her eyes. “No. Maybe. I get glimpses of it sometimes, like a countryside that you can see from an airplane. Something about it reminds me of being a kid, when the world was our kingdom, but I don’t know why.”
My heart is waving a red flag. I have to hurry.
“Quick,” I say. “Tell me what you miss the most.”
“What?”
“What do you miss about being alive?”
Her eyes blur with summer clouds. “The sound of my mom singing, a little off-key. The way my dad went to all my swim meets and I could hear his whistle when my head was underwater, even if he did yell at me afterward for not trying harder.”
While she talks, I move slowly to the door. She doesn’t notice.
“I miss going to the library. I miss the smell of clothes fresh out of the dryer. I miss diving off the highest board and nailing the landing. I miss waffles. Oh.” Her head tilts back, like she’s high on a swing. Her edges are fading. “Oh, this is awesome, Lia. I never thought of trying this, of taking the best parts with me.”
I open the door. “Do you feel better?”
She’s transparent. “Best.”
“Good.” My heart lurches.
“Go to the office,” she says, her body disappearing like a mist in the sun. “The pay phone on the wall still works. There are quarters in the top drawer. Hurry.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t answer.”
Her eyes glitter like stars. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
063.00
It takes almost the rest of my life to get to the office but because the moon is paying attention to my visions and the stars are lined up, the quarters are in the drawer and the pay phone does work.
I call my mother and give her directions so she can find me. I tell her that I’m finally alive, but that she should hurry.
The paramedics zap my heart with their magic wands as we speed to the hospital. Once, twice, three times.
064.00
They tell me I was ten days in the hospital.
I slept. Dreamless.
065.00
My third visit to New Seasons is the longest one yet, a marathon, not a sprint to the exit. I walk, mostly. Stop and sit down when I’m tired. Ask a lot of questions. Every once in a while I spend a day or three with storm clouds in my head. I sit some more, quiet, until they pass.
No games this time. No midnight exercise parties in the shower for me. No dumping my food in the plants or sticking it in my underwear or bribing an attendant to lie about my intake. I avoid the drama of the girls still neck-deep in the snow, running away from the pain as fast as they can. I hope they figure it out.
The concept of eating is scary. The nasty voices are always on call, eager to pull me back down
::Stupid/ugly/stupid/bitch/stupid/fat/
stupid/baby/stupid/loser/stupid/lost::
but I do not let them. I put all of the bites in my mouth and try not to count. It’s hard. I take half a cinnamon bagel and the numbers jump out at me, boo! Half a bagel (165). Whole bagel (330). Two tablespoons full-fat cream cheese (80).
I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life. And that’s the problem. When you’re alive, people can hurt you. It’s easier to crawl into a bone cage or a snowdrift of confusion. It’s easier to lock everybody out.
But it’s a lie.
Food is life. I reach for the second half of the bagel and spread cream cheese on both. I have no idea how much I weigh. This scares me almost to death, but I’m working on it. I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
I read a lot. Emerson, Thoreau, Watts. Sonya Sanchez; he was right, she’s amazing. The Bible, a couple of pages. The Bhagavad Gita, Dr. Seuss, Santayana. I write awkward, random poetry. Our floor goes on a field trip to a restaurant. I eat a waffle with syrup and I ask for more.
They’re teaching me how to play bridge. I’m not interested in poker. All bets are off.
Mom and Dad and Jennifer visit. We talk and talk until the dams burst and the tears flow with a little blood, because we’re all angry. But nobody storms out of our sessions. Nobody uses nasty names. We take turns shoveling through years of muck. Sometimes I think my skin will burst into flames. I’m angry at them. I’m angry at us. I’m angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ice cream or kissing a boy or maybe a girl with gentle lips and strong hands.
I’m learning how to be angry and sad and lonely and joyful and excited and afraid and happy. I am learning how to taste everything.
I don’t lie to the nurses this time. I don’t argue with them or throw anything or scream. I argue with the doctors because I don’t believe in their brand of magic, not a hundred percent, and it’s something I need to talk about. They listen. Take notes. Suggest that I write down what it looks like to me. At least they don’t think I’m crazy because I see ghosts.
My brain stirs and yawns when they take away the crazy candies. It grows when I feed it.
Another page turns on the calendar, April now, not March. Dr. Parker visits. She and the inpatient team are putting together a transition plan for me so I can shift from hospital Lia to real Lia.
“Who cares if we call it a depression or a haunting?” she asks. “You haven’t cut yourself since you got here. You’re talking. You’re eating. You’re blooming. That’s all that matters.”
Cassie’s parents show up the day the crocuses open. We cry.
I miss Cassie so much I can only think about her in sad, short gasps. She shows up now and then but rarely says anything. Mostly, she watches me knit. I’m making my mom a sweater.
I write Emma a letter every single day. When they finally let her come, she brings me a get-well card signed by her whole class. Her cast is off, but she doesn’t want to play softball. Lacrosse is the cool sport this year.
Her hug makes me strong enough to carry the entire world on my shoulders. She wants me to come home soon. I’m almost ready.
I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
I wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness.
Cassie did, too. We leaned on each other, lost in the dark and wandering in endless circles. She got too tired and went to sleep. Somehow, I dragged myself out of the dark and asked for help.
I spin and weave and knit my words and visions until a life starts to take shape.
There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn’t matter anymore.
I am thawing.
Acknowledgments
I journeyed into the land of the Wintergirls because of the countless readers who wrote and talked to me about their struggles with eating disorders, cutting, and feeling lost. Their courage and honesty put me on the path to find Lia and helped me understand her brokenness. While Lia’s story is not based on any living person, it was inspired by those readers and I thank them.
Dr. Susan J. Kressly, of Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is an extraordinary pediatrician, a
wonderful stepmother to my daughters, and a very good friend. Sue nudged me for years to tackle the topic of eating disorders and provided me with valuable feedback on early drafts of the manuscript. I appreciate both the nudging and the help. This book would not have been written without her.
Psychotherapist Gail Simon has specialized in treating patients with eating disorders in Buckingham, Pennsylvania, for twenty-three years, in addition to working at a residential treatment center for eating disorders for almost two decades. Gail graciously read the manuscript to make sure that Lia’s physical and psychological deterioration were accurately described. I am very grateful for her assistance.
It takes a village to raise a book, too. My village sits in the tall building in lower Manhattan that contains the offices of Penguin Books. I am a very fortunate author to be working with the brilliant editor Joy Peskin. Her gentle questions and keen eye helped bring Lia’s story into sharper focus for me, and her moral support helped guide me out of the storms of self-doubt. Many thanks also to Regina Hayes, president and publisher of the Viking division of Penguin, who is a hero to me in more ways than I can count. Copy editor Susan Casel saved me from public semicolon embarrassment. I thank her for not having a meltdown over the stylistic quirks of the text. Thanks to proofreader Shelly Perron and executive production editor Janet Pascal for helping my text walk the straight and narrow rules of grammar and consistency. The Penguin design team of Linda McCarthy, Natalie Sousa, Dani Delaney, and Nancy Brennan get all of the credit and deep gratitude from me for creating this beautiful book. The cover image is a photograph taken by the young and extremely talented Alexandre Denomay of Montreal, Canada. I thank him for sharing his gifts with my story.
Greg Anderson, my first husband (now married to Dr. Sue, see above) and still my friend, usually helps me out by going over my manuscript for grammar mistakes. He didn’t get a chance to do that with Wintergirls, and I promised him I would mention this. If you do find a grammar mistake, please know that it’s not Greg’s fault.
My early readers, Genevieve Gagne-Hawes, my daughters Stephanie and Meredith Anderson, Allison Sands, and Maria Grammer all offered valuable suggestions and support. Meredith and Allison in particular responded to the story in a way that is every author’s dream. Thank you also to my children Jessica and Christian Larrabee for lots of encouragement and for keeping the music turned down when I was trying to untangle plot threads.
Writing books like this often takes an author to that liminal place between reality and imagination. That’s why we need practical people who are firmly grounded in the real world. Thank you Amy Berkower, and everyone at Writers House, for keeping track of the details and allowing me to wander in the forests of my mind. I am a fortunate author indeed, for Amy is a much-appreciated friend as well as my agent.
This book would not have been written without the strength and love of my husband, Scot. I do not have the words to explain how important his presence is to my writing. I trust that he can see the depth of my gratitude when he looks in my eyes.
And finally, a long overdue recognition.
I was granted a scholarship to Manlius Pebble Hill School in Dewitt, New York, when I was in eighth grade. I am not sure why they gave it to me. I was an underwhelming student who spent most of her time daydreaming in the back row. Somebody, somewhere, must have seen potential in me, but it could have been a clerical error. Whatever the cause, I was given significant tuition assistance and spent the most important year of my education at that fine school.
My English teacher at MPH was an elderly gentleman named David Edwards. He was near retirement after a long career spent largely teaching boys in a military academy. A more unlikely teacher-student combination cannot be imagined. Mr. Edwards taught me Greek mythology, old-school style. He filled my head with the stories of gods, mortals, magic, and transformation that laid the foundation for my writing life. I am sorry that he died before I could give him one of my books.
I suspect that I frustrated Mr. Edwards, because he didn’t think I was paying attention in class. But I was. I am forever in his debt for teaching me.
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