by Katie Cross
I hated him for it.
“Hello, Lizzy!” he cried, scooping her up in his arms. His presence in my backyard felt like a serious invasion of privacy. And smiling, no less. He at least deserved to be miserable and unhappy. Not rich, newly married, and adored by his daughters.
Men.
Seconds later, Lana burst through the door like a shot. My fingers tingled in anticipation of letting him know exactly what I thought of his cowardice.
“Hey!” I called after Lana. “Shut the vacuum off first, miss.”
She skidded to a stop and dashed back inside. The vacuum quieted. A suspicious amount of time passed before she barreled back outside with a familiar green frog in her hands.
“Daddy, look! I found a new friend!” she cried. “Lizzy told me to kiss him, so I did, and nothing happened.”
“Lana! I told you not to take him in the house!”
“But Mooooom!” She lifted him up so I could see him better. “He’s so cute.”
“Keep that outside. And wash your hands. I don’t want slime all over everything.”
Daniel laughed and inspected the frog. My heart sank. At the very least, he could have acted disgusted. Maybe he’d offer to take it with him.
A temptation to make the frog a bed inside almost overcame me.
“You wouldn’t have a lighter, would you?”
Jim’s voice came from the other side of the fence so unexpectedly that it nearly sent me into a heart attack. I jumped, gasping, and whirled around to glare at him.
“Thanks for scaring me.”
“Anytime.”
“That’s really creepy.”
“The problem still remains: I have a lot of raw chicken and no working lighter.”
“Aren’t you a boy scout?” I muttered, distracted by the girls regaling their father with every single thing that had happened in the last two weeks. Why did they have to be so excited, anyway?
Jim frowned. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m just being lazy.” Without another word, he turned back to his briquettes.
“Just a second,” I said, exasperated. “I have one in the kitchen.”
Grateful to leave the happy scene, I slipped inside, rummaged around until I found a lighter, then walked back out and tossed it to Jim over the fence.
“Go crazy.”
He held it up. His eyes darted to Daniel and the girls, then back to me. “Thanks. I’ll bring you some chicken over.”
“Bitsy!” Daniel called while Lana dangled upside down from his arms. “Are they ready to go?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Uh … I got caught up in some meetings at the new job and wasn’t able to text you, but can they stay the night?”
Lizzy shrieked.
“Yes!” she screamed. “Mom, please! Oh, it would be so fun. Please, please, please!”
“I’ll do all my chores until I die,” Lana said. “Moooom! Please?”
Growling deep in my chest, I crossed the grass. “What? You want them to stay the night. I don’t know—”
“Just this once!” he said. “I promise. I know this is last minute, and I promised not to surprise you, but Jade has some really fun activities planned that would be ruined by leaving early.”
The girls stared at me, eyes wide. Unable to deny those hopeful expressions, despite my building rage, I gave in.
Besides—Daniel and I had a reckoning coming.
“Fine,” I said. “Go get your pajamas and toothbrushes and wait in the car, please. I need to talk to your father. Lizzy, please help Lana pack, and don’t forget your brush. And underwear. And clothes for tomorrow.”
“Got it, Mom!”
They darted across the yard without a backward glance, screaming the whole way. I tried not to be annoyed that they hadn’t said goodbye. By the time I turned back to him, he was already tapping on his phone.
“What’s up?” he asked without looking up.
“What’s up?”
A thousand replies flailed to the surface, but I shoved them back down. No. For this, I had to be in control. No yelling. No rage. Just pure, unadulterated facts. I’d been rehearsing this for days.
He still didn’t look at me.
“What’s up is an envelope my father brought to me. From your lawyer.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide.
“What?”
“You want joint custody, Daniel?”
The cry wrenched out of me before I could stop it—containing far more emotion than I’d planned on.
Daniel held up both hands, waving them back and forth. “Whoa, whoa. What? That went to your father?”
“It’s in my house!”
“Trust me, Elizabeth, I—”
“My name is Bitsy,” I snapped.
“Right. Right. Sorry. That wasn’t supposed to go out yet. I hadn’t authorized my lawyer to say anything. I thought we were still just discussing the particulars and had no idea that he even had the address.”
“He did!”
“I apologize.”
Real sincerity filled his expression—as real as I suspected Daniel could be, anyway. Some of my righteous indignation faded into uncertainty. How could I ever trust what he said?
“Just … just explain what’s going on.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple. I do want joint custody. It’s just that I wasn’t going to ask for it yet. Geez. I just got here, right? And I hadn’t even spoken with the girls about it.”
“You don’t have the right,” I finally said.
He opened his mouth, eyes clouding with something I assumed was annoyance, then let out a long sigh. “Listen, Bitsy, I’m sorry. Jade and I had planned to prepare this a little more.”
Words failed me. Unable to form a coherent thought around the terror streaking through my brain, I simply muttered, “Fine. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Thanks. You’re the best. Hey, the girls don’t have allergies, do they?”
“What? No.”
“Good. We’re having chicken pad thai tonight. Lots of peanuts.”
“Please make sure Lana brushes her teeth this weekend? Actually brushes her teeth. She’s been eating the toothpaste off the brush lately, and I don’t—”
Have the money to pay for the cavity to be filled, I almost said but stopped myself.
“I don’t want her getting a cavity.”
His nose wrinkled. “She’s eating toothpaste? That’s gross.”
“That’s Lana.”
On the other side of the fence, Jim bustled around his grill. A thin trickle of smoke rose above the yard. No doubt he could hear every word. The thought set me on edge. From the front yard, the girls called out.
“Dad!”
“We’re ready for dinner!”
“Right, gotta go,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the fence. He stuffed his fists and his phone into his pocket. “I’ll have them back by seven tomorrow and pick them up again Sunday morning. Listen, I’m not trying to encroach on your life with the girls. I just really want to give them the best. If you’ll let us, we can help out.”
His calm affectation enraged me even more, but I swallowed it back. Oh, he rankled my every nerve. Weren’t the girls getting everything they needed now? Did I ask for him to save us from whatever awful fate he had thrown us into during the divorce?
No. I was doing just fine without him.
“And I know we aren’t talking about it yet,” he said with a long sigh, “but thank you for letting us share the girls. You’ve done a great job with them.”
Disbelief welled up in me. I fought back the urge to snarl at him. Yes! Because I had to. You weren’t there. Do you remember that? You left them behind.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
Before he turned around, he said, “You know, Bits, really, as the girls get older, whoever they live with is their decision anyway, right? Joint custody is going to make it so they don’t have to choose between us. Best of both worlds.”
I froze.
My entire body clenched as if I’d just dropped into a lake of ice. Not only had the rapid change in subject startled me—a typical Daniel move—I couldn’t believe what he’d said. As if he couldn’t keep up with his own mind.
It’s their decision.
Choose between us.
My brain immediately read into what he didn’t say.
As the girls aged, they’d be able to go to his house whenever they wanted. He’d take over as the main, favorite parent. Somehow, he’d infect what was left of my life like a poison. The girls would choose fun, movie-going Dad over green-smoothie Mom. Mom, who provided boundaries and stability and chores and homework and life.
I was powerless to stop him from taking the girls away from me full time because it really was their decision.
They could choose him.
I nearly choked on my own tongue.
“Bitsy?” he asked. “You good? You’re kind of—”
“Get out of here,” I snapped. “Go.”
He held up both hands. “Fine. Fine.” He spun on his heel and retreated through the gate. It slammed shut behind him. I whirled around, driving a hand through my hair. Only Daniel kicked up such a heady desperation that I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.
It’s their decision.
He was right. It was their decision. I had absolutely no control over whether they chose him one day.
None.
Their world could slip through my fingers, and I’d be able to do nothing more than desperately grasp at it. My life would spiral into a lonely gulch of emptiness.
“Sounds like a real douchebag,” Jim called as I walked inside. “Let me know if you want me to get rid of him next time. Oh, and chicken should be done soon.”
I waved a hand to acknowledge it but went inside. The screen door shut behind me with a bang. Once I stepped into the kitchen, the coiled knot in my chest unraveled like a burning-hot snake.
The careful stakes I’d laid down to protect myself from my own wrath pulled away.
I lost control.
Chapter 5
Losing Control
I threw open the fridge.
The door slammed against the counter, rattling jars of tamari, pickles, and minced garlic. Light flooded my face. My hands attacked the containers waiting inside—all so meticulously labeled, stacked, and organized—and shoved them onto the counter.
A thousand thoughts whirled through my mind, but I didn’t pay attention to the background spiral. Or the pandemonium. Or the strange quiet humming in my body, leading to the only possible conclusion.
It’s their decision.
I cannot control that.
The harsh reality that I rarely let myself see was so clear right then. I wasn’t in control of anything, really. Despite all my efforts, my mother could die. My father could remarry. My brother could commit suicide. My husband could cheat on me. My daughters could choose their father.
Powerless, I thought as I grabbed a container of deli meat, followed by cheese. Mayo. Ranch. Bread.
Although I kept everything in my life in order, I didn’t really have power over anything. Not my own children. Not my own happiness. Not even the sandwich I was about to make, because my hands felt compelled by something else entirely. Perhaps, on some level, I didn’t even control my health. Why did I feel so tired?
So weary?
My eyes landed on a tray of eggs. I carefully plucked out two, set them aside, and grabbed the milk. With easy, methodical movements, I removed a frying pan and broke the eggs. While they simmered, I snatched a loaf of bread and slipped two pieces of toast into the toaster. Then four.
I picked up a bar of butter.
Their decisions.
With my thoughts pushed into the background, I moved through the kitchen cupboards, pulling out food with single-minded determination.
Multi-grain crackers.
Jam.
Peanut butter.
Lana’s beloved sugar cereal gifted to her from Grandpa on her birthday. I couldn’t even control what they ate, could I?
You’re out of control already, came the voice. The voice that always showed up in this moment. What does it matter? Give in. Feel good the only way you know how. This isn’t a binge.
This is just what you are.
I reached into the cupboard and jerked out a box of graham crackers. Making a quick batch of buttercream frosting only took minutes. I tracked the churn of the mixer. The rhythm seemed to match the frenetic cadence of my thoughts.
No control.
No control.
No control.
The binge happened in near silence, with a strange calm filling me after every bite. Eating again felt wonderful. I had forgotten how enjoyable being full could be. The eggs disappeared. The second helping of toast vanished. Cheesy potatoes. Hash browns crisp and buttered to perfection. Crackers slathered with cheese and jam. All the while, I existed in the gray background, feeling nothing but the food sliding down my throat. It all tasted so sweet and wonderful and so not like my life.
It’s mostly healthy food, the voice said. You can’t even really binge, can you? Where’s the ice cream? The cake? The brownies? Oh, right. You never buy that because of your secret. The fact that you really can’t cope without food. Don’t you always come back? You think you’re so in control.
Nothing is yours to have, Bitsy Walker. You’ll live this cyclical life and then die tired.
That’s it.
My stomach reached its limits—and then some. I glanced at the clock. Almost an hour and a half had passed. Ninety minutes of ravenous eating—as if I hadn’t even known that time existed.
Stuffed with shame, I sank onto the couch.
The first tendrils of horror washed over me moments later.
What have I done?
I grabbed a pillow, tucked my face into it, and screamed. Then I pounded the couch with my fists. My stomach was heavy, distended, disgusting. Now I hated myself.
The way I always did.
My body bulged. Pain stabbed at me from all angles, cramping my belly. I stumbled into the kitchen and reached for a cool washcloth to put over my eyes but stopped, staring at the carnage. Empty bowls. Wrappers cast aside. Broken eggshells. Toast crumbs. Smears of frosting on the counter.
What have I done? I thought in horror. This is the worst it’s ever been.
There was only one way to feel better.
Only one way to atone for the carnage of calories and emotion.
I ran to the bathroom, dropped to my knees, and jammed my finger down my throat. After three attempts, I retched. My stomach emptied into the toilet once, twice, three times. Water splashed my face. When I’d emptied everything I’d just put in, I sat back, sweaty and exhausted. Acid burned my throat—not just from the horrid smell, which seemed to cling to my nostrils. My clammy hands trembled against the tile floor, slimy with vomit. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse.
Was it possible to be this low?
Again?
Just as I wiped water from my eyes, a shuffle came from the hallway.
“Mom?” Lizzy called. “You okay? The kitchen…”
My head jerked up.
Lizzy stood in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes and a terrified expression.
“Mom?”
The tremulous word slipped out of Lizzy’s mouth like a slap.
Nothing else could have knocked into me with such force. My heart bucked in my chest. I straightened, wiping my face off with my sleeve. Without taking my eyes off her, I reached over and closed the toilet lid. The acidic stench of vomit filled the air.
How much had she seen?
“Lizzy,” I whispered. “I…”
Daniel’s voice came from near the front door. “Lizzy?” he called. “Did you find your toothbrush?”
Lizzy stared at me, face pale, without saying a word. She’d had to walk past the kitchen. She was a smart girl. That kind of a mess combined with Mom vomiting in the bathroom wouldn’t add up, n
o matter what kind of lie I told to cover it.
“I…”
She took a step back. I shoved off my knees, but my legs were weak. My stomach was still cramping. A metallic tasted filled my mouth.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered. “I-I saw you—”
“Lizzy?”
Daniel rounded the corner, coming up just behind Lizzy. He set his hands on her shoulders and frowned.
“Bitsy?” he asked.
A cold feeling washed all the way down my shoulders, spilling through my fingertips and down to my toes.
So she’d seen it.
“You all right, Liz?” Daniel asked. He squeezed her shoulders.
Before she could respond, his eyes narrowed on me. His mouth went slack. Then, in damning confirmation of what I knew he’d suspect right away, he glanced behind him into the kitchen. Memories of my past life while married to him flittered through my mind.
He’d seen carnage like that before.
“Lizzy,” Daniel said quietly. “Go back to the car while I talk to your mom, all right? I’ll grab your toothbrush.”
“Okay,” she murmured but sent a questioning glance to me.
“I’m … fine, sweetheart,” I whispered, swallowing back the lump in my throat.
After seeing that look in her eyes, I would never be fine again.
“I just … I didn’t feel well, but now I do. I think I ate some bad eggs for dinner.”
The lie felt as horrible as vomiting. Could a nine-year-old comprehend a disease as horrible as this? Had I just destined her to battling it herself?
The thought sent me into another crushing spiral.
She hesitated, lingering for a heartbeat, before reluctantly stepping out of sight. Trembling, I met Daniel’s gaze. Instead of wrath and fury—like in the past—I saw nothing but concern. I hated him even more for it.
He waited. It felt as if eternities had passed before Lizzy left the house and shut the door. Daniel ran a hand through his hair.
“Bitsy, I … I thought you’d moved past this. You said you saw a therapist after the divorce and—”
“I did,” I snapped. “I did, all right? But you … you came back into my life and messed everything up. You don’t deserve to be happy when I’m so miserable, and it’s your fault!”
He reared back, blinking. I’d dreamed of saying the words for so long that once they rolled free, I couldn’t stop them. But now I only wanted them back. They sounded hateful. Bitter. Like a woman who clung to the past and couldn’t let go. I didn’t even sound like myself.