Purge

by Sarah Darer Littman

  I’m not sure I can accept them doing that. But I guess I can accept the fact that I’ll be really sad — and probably, if I’m willing to admit it, really, really angry — if they do.

  Well, here goes nothing …

  My parents are doing their best Madame Tussauds imitation when I enter Dr. Pardy’s office. I’m not exactly what you’d call relaxed myself, but at least I’ve prepared myself for feeling like crap if things go the way I expect them to — in other words, badly.

  “I appreciate you coming to meet here on such short notice,” Dr. Pardy tells my parents. “Janie has made quite a breakthrough, and I felt that it would help her to be able to discuss it with you sooner rather than later.”

  Later would be fine by me. No, let’s get it over with.

  “A breakthrough? Why, that’s terrific, honey!” Mom says. “Does that mean Janie will be able to come home soon?”

  Yes. Does it?

  “Let’s hold off on that discussion until after she’s had a chance to speak with you,” Dr. Pardy says. “Why don’t you start, Janie?”

  I would give anything — not kidding, anything — to be able to get my ass to a bathroom and purge right now, rather than having to start this discussion with my parents. But everyone is sitting there, looking at me expectantly.

  So I launch in, looking at a spot on the wall in between my parents so that it looks like I’m looking at them but I don’t actually have to see the expressions on their faces when I tell them about how I lost my virginity to the son of one of Dad’s biggest clients in the aforementioned client’s pool house.

  I manage not to cry while I’m recounting what went down in the Lewis’s cabana, but when it comes to the wedding … when I tell them about how it felt when I realized that what was so special for me was nothing to Matt, it brings back all of the agony I felt on that night, like I’ve picked the scab off of a really fresh and painful wound.

  It’s only when I finish speaking that I’m able to look directly at my parents. My mother is reaching for the box of tissues, tears running down her face. My father looks completely shell-shocked. Neither of them says anything, which freaks me out because I need to know what they’re thinking.

  “I always thought the Lewis kid was so polite and well-mannered,” Dad says in a monotone. “Shows how much I know.”

  “Wh — why didn’t you tell us, Janie?” Mom sniffs.

  “Because … I was scared.”

  “Scared of what?” Mom asks. “Did that boy threaten you?”

  It’s like Mom can’t bring herself to say Matt’s name after hearing what happened. I know how she feels.

  “No! I wasn’t scared of him. I was scared of you … and Dad. Scared that you wouldn’t believe me. Or that you’d be mad at me. Plus I was afraid because Mr. Lewis is Dad’s client and all and …”

  “But you’re our daughter!” Mom says. “We love you.”

  “Not as much as Jenny,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “I’ll never be as perfect as she is.”

  Then I hate myself for saying it.

  “Jenny’s not perfect,” Mom says. “Neither is Harry. Neither am I, and neither is your father.”

  “Dad thinks she is. I’ll never live up to Jenny in Dad’s eyes.”

  “How can you think that, Pussycat?” Dad says. I’m shocked to see that his eyes are shining with tears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father teary-eyed before, even at my grandmother’s funeral.

  “Well, because you’re always telling me how I should be more like Jenny, how I should study hard like Jenny, so I can get into Yale like Jenny and marry a nice investment banker … just like Jenny,” I tell him. “And you think what Jenny does has meaning and value, whereas you think the stuff that’s important to me, like doing drama, isn’t important.”

  “But your father is incredibly proud of you and your acting!” Mom says. “You should hear him bragging about you to all of our friends.”

  “Well, maybe you should try bragging about me to me,” I tell Dad.

  It’s strange. At home, Dad is always the one doing the talking, who knows what to say, who takes charge of the situation. But here, he looks totally bewildered … like this is so out of what he would call his “areas of competence” that he’s happy to let Mom wear the pants, so to speak.

  “I’m sorry, Pussycat. Really I am,” Dad says, wiping his eyes. “I guess your old dad might be good at managing money, but not so great at being a dad.”

  Hearing my normally totally confident and self-assured dad sounding so humble makes me start crying again, too.

  “You are a good dad,” I sob. “I just want to feel like you’re as proud of me as you are of Jenny, that’s all.”

  “Don’t ever doubt that, honey,” Dad says. “Don’t ever doubt that. I guess I’ll have to make an effort to tell you more, huh?”

  Dr. Pardy has been silently watching and listening, but now she chimes in to our little family Sob Fest.

  “I think the lesson here is how easy it is to hold on to misconceptions if there isn’t good communication within a family,” she says.

  “I thought we did communicate,” Mom says. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “You guys have been so wrapped up in the Wedding of the Century you haven’t really been listening to a whole lot else.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know things have been a bit crazy these last few months,” Mom says.

  “More than a bit.”

  Dad leans forward in his chair. “Honey, I wanted to give Jenny and Brad a good start to their life together.” He takes out a monogrammed handkerchief from his suit pocket and blows his nose. “Just like someday, I hope to do the same thing for you.”

  I’m considering telling him that I plan to elope, when Dr. Pardy begins to speak.

  “Let’s talk a bit about what kind of support Janie will need when she is released from Golden Slopes,” she says. “Because I think some family therapy would be helpful, on top of the need for Janie to find a good individual therapist.”

  “When can Janie come home?” Mom asks.

  “I think if we can get the posthospitalization treatment plan in place, the day after tomorrow,” Dr. Pardy says, smiling.

  The day after tomorrow? I can’t believe it — I thought I’d be stuck in here for eternity!

  Dr. Pardy hands my mother a yellow pad so Mom can take notes about the things she needs to get sorted out before they’ll let me out of here. They have to know that Mom’s set up an appointment for me with a therapist within a week of my getting out of here, and that we’ve got some family counseling sessions on the calendar, too. I’m nervous about who my therapist will be — although I guess I didn’t have a whole lot of choice about Dr. Pardy and she turned out to be okay. Now that I’ve learned how to spill my guts to a room full of virtual strangers, speaking to one person under shrink–patient privilege should be a cinch, right?

  When the Things to Do Before Janie Is Sprung list is completed, Dad stands up and shakes Dr. Pardy by the hand.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I have to tell you, I’ve been a lifelong skeptic about shrinks, but you seem to be the real deal, and I really appreciate what you’ve done to help our Janie.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Ryman, it’s been my pleasure. Janie is a bright and insightful young lady, who has made tremendous progress while she’s been here.”

  Mom hugs me.

  “I can’t wait to have my girl back home,” she says. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  “What, even when I talk back and roll my eyes and tell you how you’re ruining my life?”

  “Even then,” Mom says, her eyes filling up for what must be the zillionth time.

  “Take care of yourself, Pussycat,” Dad says. “And don’t forget — your old dad loves you.”

  “I love you, too, Dad.”

  I know that in life these conversations don’t happen all that often. So when one does — especially when you’ve been convinced that your parents are going to hate y
ou when you tell them something and they tell you they love you instead — it feels pretty damn … special.

  August 7th

  It’s weird, I’ve been dying to get out of this place for every single minute of the almost three weeks I’ve been in here … but now that it’s actually going to happen tomorrow, I’m scared. I don’t know if I’m ready to face life on the outside. What am I going to say to people? I bet everyone in the whole world knows about what happened at Jenny’s wedding, and that they’re all going to think that I’m this totally screwed-up freak. At least in here, everyone else is a totally screwed-up freak, too. What if that ends up being my identity for the rest of high school — the girl who ended up in a mental hospital after she completely lost it at her sister’s wedding? What if Matt Lewis tells everyone that I was a virgin? What if he tells everyone that I’m easy?

  As I write this, I feel my shoulders tensing up and my jaw starting to clench and, if I’m willing to admit this to myself, I’m feeling the urge to purge. Strategies! Strategies!

  Maybe I’ll go talk to one of the nurses in a little while. But first, I think of what Joe said to me in the gym when I was freaking out about how my parents would react. So I try to think of the worst case scenarios — the entire school knowing that I lost my virginity to Matt Lewis in his parents’ pool house, and that I was stupid enough to think that it actually meant something to him, that I might end up being known as “Crazy Janie” for the rest of my days at Pine Ridge High, that other guys might think that because I gave it up to Matt Lewis, who I’d crushed on for four years, that I’m some kind of slut who will do it with anyone.

  How do I accept it if those things really happen, because it would so totally and completely suck?

  Then I think about my best friends, Kelsey and Danny. Will they stop being my friends just because I was stupid enough to believe in Matt Lewis, who Kelsey at least knows I’ve worshiped from afar for years? I don’t think so. Will Danny hate me because I slept with Matt? Well, I’m pretty sure he and Nicole Hartman were doing it while they were dating last summer, and I sure as hell don’t hate him.

  Jenny and Brad, if they haven’t forgiven me, at least don’t completely hate me, and if they can still love me after what I did at their wedding, why should I care what an asshole like Matt Lewis says or does? And my parents, who I thought wouldn’t believe me, who I thought would think it was all my fault, came through for me.

  So while I’m not denying that it will completely suck if everyone is talking about me and thinks I’m this crazy, screwed-up chick, I know I’ll live. What’s more, I know I want to. I’ve got to remember to thank Harry for calling 911 when I get home.

  August 9th

  I’m FREE!!! It feels so good to be home, sleeping in my own bed. To be able to put a napkin in my lap while I eat dinner and to pick the cucumbers out of the salad. Best of all is being able to go to the bathroom without someone listening at the door — although Mom’s been pretty vigilant about keeping an eye on me for at least half an hour after every meal, which is getting old fast, but I guess I understand why she’s doing it, even though it’s making me crazy. So to speak.

  When I got home, I hugged Ringo, who was running around and barking with excitement. Then I hugged my brother, Harry, who put up with it for a moment, but then was like, “All right, jeez, enough of the mushy stuff!” But I didn’t let him go right away — I looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks for calling 911, squirt.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” was his sentimental reply. He can’t help it really; he’s just a twelve-year-old boy.

  It was hard to leave my friends at Golden Slopes, though. I felt guilty that I was going to be buzzed out of the locked doors and they were still going to be stuck in that place.

  I got people to write their e-mail addresses and IM screen names in the back of this journal. I wonder if we’ll all keep in touch, or if once we get back to our “real” lives, we’ll want to just forget about everything to do with what happened at Camp Golden Slopes. I hope not, because I want to know how things go with everyone. I worry that they’re all going to be okay. I wonder how it’ll be for Tom when he comes out to his friends at school. Will they be supportive or will they be assholes like his dad? I wonder if Dr. Pardy will ever be able to get to the bottom of what’s up with Callie. I want Callie to be able to get through life, no matter how awful it is, without gouging herself. I want Tracey to figure out that there’s more to her than wife and mother, to learn what makes her tick, and even more importantly, what makes her happy. I want Missy’s mom to realize that the stepdad is a creep. I want Tinka to get well enough to finish at Harvard and Bethany to be able to eat peas instead of hiding them in her sock.

  I often think about Helen. What makes the difference between ending up like her, dead, or being considered “cured” enough to leave Golden Slopes and get on with your life, like me? I think about what would have happened if Harry hadn’t ignored my parents and called 911 when he did. Could I have died? As awful as I felt that morning, I know now that I’d rather be here than in a box in the ground like Helen.

  The irony is that even though I’m alive and free, I’m afraid to leave the house. I feel like a turtle without its shell — naked and vulnerable. I’m afraid to go to Starbucks, I’m afraid to go to the beach, I’m afraid to go to the mall, I’m afraid to go anywhere in case I bump into anyone I know. Pathetic, isn’t it?

  Maybe I just need some time to heal, to lick my wounds — or maybe I’m just being a coward.

  “C’mon, Janie,” Kelsey pleads. “You can’t keep hiding away in your house forever. Change into your bathing suit. I’m taking you to the beach.”

  “I can’t go to the beach!” I wail. “We might … SEE people.”

  “That’s the point, you doofus! School starts in two weeks. You’re going to have to ‘see people’ then and you might as well get a bit of practice to ease into it slowly.”

  The thought of being around lots of people scares the hell out of me. I still feel so raw and exposed. But deep down I know that, as usual, Kelsey’s right. Maybe I need to get this whole “being out there with other people” thing over with sooner rather than later.

  So we get into Kelsey’s car and drive to the beach. I’m wearing an oversize T-shirt over my bathing suit, with no intention of taking it off, even to swim.

  We spread our beach towels on an empty patch of sand.

  “It’s so hot and humid,” Kelsey complains. “We need a celebratory ice cream — my treat. What do you want?”

  I’m about to say “no, thanks,” because of the fat and the calories, but then I remember something Dr. Pardy said about acting opposite; about how if my instinct is to do something that is part of my eating disordered behavior, I should consciously do the opposite. What the hell, I figure. How many calories can there be in a Fudgsicle?

  Kelsey goes off to the concession stand in pursuit of ice cream, and I’m about to lie down in my jumbo T-shirt when I think what the hell again. I whip off the T-shirt and sprawl out on the towels.

  It’s bizarre. I’m lying on the beach wearing a bathing suit without a T-shirt for the first time in at least two years. For once in my life I feel entirely at home in my own skin, with no shame for how I look or who I am. I actually kind of … like … myself. How strange is that? I’m not thinking about flabby thighs or a fat ass or anything other than how warm and comforting the sand feels beneath my feet, and how the soft breeze lifts my hair back from my face, but miraculously, without making it look like the usual ball of frizz. The sun caresses my face gently, tenderly, like the hero in a movie right before he leans in to kiss the heroine. Gulls call to each other overhead, as children laugh and fight over shovels.

  I open my eyes and look out across the sand to where the sun’s rays have laid a blanket of diamonds on the water’s surface. I wish I could scoop up those diamonds, one by one, to help me remember this feeling when the old insecurities creep back into my head, when I start hearing that bitchy, critic
al voice playing the same negative tapes in my head. To remind me that I am worthwhile and deserving of respect from myself and others. To remind me that I have a voice and I can use it. That even when I feel trapped and frustrated, there’s always a choice — even if it isn’t an easy or a pleasant one. Because I’m the director of The Janie Ryman Story, and whether it’s a comedy or a tragedy is about where I choose to point the camera lens.

  I close my eyes again, mentally collecting sun-diamond memories to store in my inner keepsake box, when I feel a shadow across my body, blocking out the sun.

  “Hey, Janie. Long time no see.”

  I open my eyes and look up into the tanned face of Danny Epstein. “I’ve missed you,” he says, looking for all the world like he’s blushing under his tan — surely not because of me?

  “I heard you were …” he pauses. “Away.”

  I feel my stomach clench and my first instinct is to reach for my T-shirt, to feel embarrassed and ashamed, to want to cover up my stomach and breasts and thighs and butt, all those parts of me that are so imperfect and unlovely. But then I reach out to the horizon with my hand and pluck another imaginary diamond off the water’s surface. I remind myself that I’m more than a size of clothing or a number on a scale, and that I don’t have to be perfect, I just have to be me, Janie Ryman, and if that’s not good enough for people, then, as Missy would say, “Fuck ’em!”

  “I was in the hospital,” I say. “Getting treated for bulimia.”