“Guess it’s about time.”
“Are you going to see Tanner tonight?”
She nods with a grim expression.
“Are you still going to tell him the truth?” She told me that she’s going to confess everything to him, including how she lied to him about the tonsillectomy and how her reduction surgery got botched, and how God’s gotten her attention through all this.
She nods again. “I have to.”
“Well, don’t worry, Leah. I’m sure that he won’t care. He should just be glad that you’re okay. Right?”
“I hope so.”
But the following morning when I pick up Leah to go shopping, she looks so bummed that I immediately suspect something is wrong.
“How’d it go with Tanner?” I ask as she gets in the car.
“Not good.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, he was understanding and everything. And he thought it was really sweet that I confessed the whole thing to him. And I know he felt bad for me.”
“Well, what then?”
“He just has a problem with the whole surgery thing.”
“Huh?”
“It kind of weirded him out.”
“Oh.”
“He thought maybe we should take a break, from dating, you know.”
I don’t totally get this line of reasoning, but instead I say, “Maybe that’s good.”
She sighs. “Maybe . . . but it feels like it’s going to be more than a break, like it’s really a breakup. I could see it in his eyes, Emily, it’s like I repulsed him.”
“Oh.”
Now she starts to cry. Not the big huge blubbering kind of crying like she did that day in the hospital. But even so, it breaks my heart. Poor Leah.
“It’s going to get better, Leah,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Just remember to breathe,” I tell her, for lack of anything better.
Naturally, this overshadows our shopping trip. But somehow, Leah manages to help me find just the right things, and despite her pain, I am feeling pretty good by the time we stop for lunch.
“I’m buying you lunch,” says Leah as we head for the food court. “And you’re going to eat.”
I’m not ready to argue with her. Especially since I know this girl has already been through a lot. “I’ll try,” I say as she leads us to the Chinese-food counter.
Leah orders a stir-fried combination with pork and fried rice, and I’m about to order the stir-fried veggies with no rice when Leah interrupts. “She’ll have what I’m having,” she tells the girl behind the counter, giving me a look that says, “Don’t mess with me.”
They quickly fill our orders and we go sit down, and to my surprise, Leah actually bows her head. “Dear God,” she says, “thank you for this good food. We ask you to bless it and to make our bodies healthy as we eat it. Amen!” Then she looks at me with a challenging expression as she holds up her chopsticks. “Let’s eat.”
I slowly break apart my chopsticks and begin picking around for pieces of broccoli and celery and peapods. Anything green.
“Come on, Emily,” she says in a less-than-patient tone. “You can do better than that. Try a piece of meat.”
I swallow hard and tell myself that I can do this as I pick up a piece of pork. I even put it in my mouth before the gag reflex kicks in and I have to spit it out in the napkin.
Leah is frowning now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “but honestly, I haven’t eaten meat in months. And it just felt so yucky.”
She nods. “Okay, then just eat the veggies, including the carrots and onions—and, yes, I know they have carbs. Tough. And then you can work on the rice.”
For whatever reason (maybe it’s her breakup with Tanner or her rough week after the surgery or even the good help with clothes shopping), I really do want to please her today. And by the time I’m finished, I have eaten all of my veggies and about half of my rice. “Okay, that might not look like much,” I tell her, “but it’s the most I’ve eaten in months.”
She nods with a sad expression. “I believe you.”
“And now my stomach hurts.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s probably just stretching a little.”
“Oh, great.” I imagine it stretching out to the size of a watermelon.
“All you had were vegetables and rice, Emily. That’s not going to make you fat.”
I act like I believe her, but all I want to do is rush to the bathroom and make myself hurl. Unfortunately, I know that she would follow me in there, and then I’d never hear the end of it.
“Can we go walk around?” I ask.
“Yeah. We still need to get you a few things.”
It feels good to get up and move around, and I tell myself that I can do an extra workout when I get home, and before the sun sets tonight, I will have burned off these calories. I am determined.
“Aren’t you glad that you ate a good lunch?” she asks over the door to the dressing room, as I’m trying on a great-looking pair of jeans. “Don’t you feel better?”
I nod as I zip the jeans, pleased that a size 9 fits perfectly and that my stomach does not look like a watermelon. This is the thinnest I have ever been! And, okay, I’m not a size 1 like Leah, I think as I examine these jeans from all angles, but I’m not half-bad either. I step out of the dressing room to show Leah now, and she claps her hands in approval.
“Those are perfect, Em. And see the way those pockets make your rearend look smaller?”
I turn and look again. But even as I’m looking, I’m thinking, yeah, she’s right, that part of my body still needs some serious reduction. I’m not done losing weight yet. I mean, if I could drop four sizes, why not a couple more? Or at least I might be able to fit into a pair of size 7s by the time school starts in three weeks. Size 7s!
fifteen
“LOOKS LIKE YOUR BACK-TO-SCHOOL SHOPPING WAS A SUCCESS,” MY MOM says when I come home buried beneath bags of clothes.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I can’t believe I can actually wear a size 9 now. And some of the tops I got were smalls!” I open a bag and pull out a T-shirt just to show her.
She smiles, but it doesn’t hide a look of concern in her eyes. “Are you going to stop dieting now?”
Dieting is what I’ve told my parents I’m doing. And I pretend to eat things like cereal in the morning, although I just dump it down the sink when no one’s looking. Then, of course, I’m not home for lunch. And I usually just pick at a salad for dinner. My dad thinks I’m “doing great and exhibiting lots of willpower” when I pass up desserts and snacks. He seems oblivious to the fact that my weight loss has occurred relatively quickly. But Mom, on the other hand, continues to question me. We’ve even had a few fights over it. And the last time she complained, I told her that her pestering me would only make things worse. I think that helped some, because she’s really let up. Until today.
“Emily,” she persists, “I’m worried about your eating habits. I think it’s time to stop this dieting and to start eating in a more healthy way.”
I study her for a few seconds, standing there in her baggy oldlady jeans that she has to get in the plus-size section, and her darkgreen tunic top, which is meant to camouflage her weight but looks more like an army tent that’s gone soft. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. “Don’t worry about the way I eat.”
“But you don’t eat,” she says. “Do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I saw Ronda the other day. She mentioned how you skip lunch in order to exercise by walking every day.”
“What?” I demand. “Do you have spies now?”
“No, we were just talking. Ronda’s the one who brought it up.”
“Well, she might be my boss at work, but she’s not the boss of my personal life. Ronda should mind her own business.”
“She was concerned about you, honey.”
“She should be concerned about herself, Mom. Have you noticed how heav
y she is?”
Mom looks hurt now. And I realize that Ronda is probably smaller than Mom. “Ronda thinks you may have anorexia, Emily. And apparently she’s not the only one. There’s a girl who works in the coffee shop who has the same — ”
“Frieda?” I spit out. “It just figures.” I don’t add that Frieda is fat too. It’s like all the fat people are ganging up on me.
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“What?” I’m so mad at Frieda and Ronda now that I can’t even remember what we were talking about.
“Anorexia? Do you think you might have an eating disorder? I’ve been reading up on it, and it’s really frightening, Emily. It can do damage to your body, and it really strains your heart when you over — ”
“I’m not anorexic!” I practically scream at her, tossing my bags to the floor for effect.
“Hey,” says Dad as he comes in from the garage, “what’s the problem?”
“Mom’s the problem,” I say to him. “Just because I’ve been dieting and losing weight, she’s all freaked that I’m anorexic.”
Dad smiles at me now, looking at me with what feels like real approval, like I finally look like the daughter he’s been wanting all these years. Then he turns to Mom, and I think I can see a slight frown creasing his brow. “Oh, I’m sure she’s not anorexic, sweetheart. She’s just been eating less and exercising more. Just like I’d been telling her to do. And it’s working.” He turns back and pats me on the back. “Keep up the good work, Emily. You’re looking great.”
Now I give Mom a victorious smile. “See,” I tell her. “I’m fine. Just ask Dad.”
However, she doesn’t look convinced. And as I gather up my bags, I can’t help but notice that her eyes are moist. She turns away to face the sink. I don’t stick around to see her cry. And I don’t blame myself for her sadness either. She’s been like this a lot lately. I figure it’s either menopause or the fact that she’s getting sick and tired of being fat. I know I was. But, I tell myself, this isn’t about me.
As I put my new clothes away, I am feeling seriously irked at Ronda and Frieda. What right do they have to go around talking about me? They’re probably just jealous and trying to get back at me. I’m tempted to call the bookstore right now and tell Ronda that I quit. That would teach her. This is a busy time of year for the bookstore, and I’m a hard worker. I’m sure she’d be sorry that she interfered in my personal life.
“Emily?” calls my mom as she knocks on my door.
“What?” I say in a cranky voice, preparing myself for a whole new assault from her. Maybe she’s come with food again. She’s tried that quite a few times.
I open the door with a frown, ready to say, “No thanks!” to whatever sugary, fatty offering she might be hoping to tempt me with. But all she has in her hand is the phone. “It’s for you.”
Wondering why the person didn’t call my cell phone, I answer it and am surprised to find that it’s Pastor Ray. I also feel a little guilty—for a couple of reasons. First of all for skipping out on youth group this summer, and perhaps even more than that, I feel bad that I’ve been treating my mom so poorly this evening.
“Hi, Emily,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “Just busy. I’ve been working at the bookstore, then helping Leah after her surgery and stuff.” Right, make yourself sound good to the youth pastor. What a hypocrite I’ve turned into.
“Good to hear. I hope Leah’s recovering.”
“She is. I was just with her today. She’s lots better.”
“Oh, good. Well, I’m calling to ask you for a huge favor, Emily.”
“What’s that?” Pastor Ray wants a favor from me? What’s wrong with this picture?
“I’m in charge of another camp during the last two weeks of August, and one of my worship leaders just bailed on me, and I remembered how great you were at filling in this past June. I just wondered if you might possibly be available to join the worship team.”
“You want me to be a worship leader?”
“Yeah, it should be lots easier than being a cabin counselor, Emily. I know you had a rough time in June. This might actually feel like a vacation, since all you would do is help to lead singing before meals and then at campfire. The pay’s not much, but — ”
“It sounds great,” I tell him.
“I was hoping you’d think so. I mean, we might’ve been okay with just three musicians, but God really put you on my heart. I just get this deep sense that God wants you there for those two weeks. I think he can really use you, Emily.”
“But I do have my job at the bookstore.”
“I’m sure that Ronda would let you go,” he says quickly. Of course, Ronda goes to our church too—for all I know she and Pastor Ray could be in cahoots. Although I doubt it. “Especially if she realized that you were leaving to help out at camp. Maybe I could even talk to her for you.”
“No . . .” The last thing I need is for Ronda to open her big mouth to Pastor Ray right now. “No, it’s okay, I can talk to her. And at least I can give her a week’s notice.” Of course, I don’t tell him how I was just imagining quitting on her today with no notice.
“That’d be great, Emily.” Then he fills me in on some details, which go in one ear and out the other, and I promise to get back to him after I speak to Ronda.
Do I feel like a hypocrite when I hang up? Well, duh. I mean pretty much everything I’ve been doing lately seems a bit questionable, if not downright dishonest. But I remind myself of how Pastor Ray said that God had put me on his heart and how he believed God wanted me at this camp. And, okay, who am I to argue with God?
“What did Pastor Ray want?” Mom asks as I return the phone to the cradle in the kitchen downstairs.
I tell her about camp, hoping this will provide a good distraction for her—something to take her mind off of my so-called “eating disorder.”
“Oh, that would be nice,” she says as she washes a head of lettuce. “You’re so good with your guitar and singing, Emily. I’ve often wondered why you don’t do more with it.”
“Really?” I study her. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose I just assumed that you knew how good you were.”
“It doesn’t hurt to hear that from others.”
She turns and smiles at me. “You’re right, Emily. I should’ve told you that a long time ago.” Then she frowns, and I can tell she’s thinking about my weight again. “But do you think you’ll be okay at camp?”
“Why not?”
“You won’t keep dieting, will you? Because you’ll need your strength. Can you at least promise me that you’ll eat while you’re there?”
I glance away. I may be a hypocrite, but I hate lying to my mother.
“Emily?”
“I’ll do my best, Mom.”
Now she comes over, and I can tell she wants to hug me. And I don’t fight it. I have to admit there is something very comforting about her softness, just enveloping me like that.
But then she steps back and just shakes her head. “You are too thin, Emily. If you don’t stop this dieting, or whatever you want to call it, you’ll be nothing but skin and bones.”
I force a laugh. “I don’t think so, Mom.”
“I mean it, Emily. You need to take care of yourself. You’re just wasting away.”
“I don’t see how you can say that,” I tell her. “I wear a size 9 and Leah is about three sizes smaller. Do you think she’s wasting away?”
She considers this. “Maybe so. Maybe the two of you are both anorexic.”
“Oh, Mom.” I roll my eyes.
Now she holds a carrot out for me. “Well, you can at least eat this, can’t you?”
I take the carrot from her and take a bite. “Feel better now?” I say with my mouth full.
“Not much.”
“Whatever,” I say as I turn away with the carrot still in my hand. “I’m taking a walk.” But as s
oon as I’m out of sight of the house, I ditch the carrot. I’m not stupid. I know that carrots are full of sugar. And I remember that lunch Leah forced me to eat today and all those calories I have to burn off before sunset. And I walk faster than ever.
As it turns out, Ronda has no problem with my quitting before summer ends. She almost seems relieved.
“You’re a good worker,” she tells me on my last day. She’s asked me to come back to her office to pick up my check. “But I’d be lying to say that I’m not worried about you, Emily.”
“Thanks.” I say as I stick the envelope into my purse. I don’t want to do anything to encourage this conversation.
“I know that you have an eating disorder.”
I look toward the door, wondering how rude it would be to just make a run for it. Take the money and run.
“And I suspect that you’re anorexic.”
Now I look directly at her, still not answering, but hoping that my stare will somehow threaten her—like how dare she attack me about my weight when she has a weight problem herself?
“I know what you think, Emily. You’re probably thinking, Why should this fat woman have an opinion about me or my body?”
I kind of shrug, like yeah.
“Well, let me tell you a little story. Believe it or not, I used to be a lot like you. I was a little overweight as a teen, and I decided to do something about it. I tried a bunch of diets, and finally, in desperation, I just quit eating. And, like you, I became anorexic. I remember the thrill of not eating, of losing weight, and the powerful way I felt when I exercised to excess.”
I’m sure I look pretty skeptical now. Like, yeah, you bet.
“I kept it up for a couple of years too. I finally got so sick that my parents intervened and made me get help. And it took a long time, but finally I got over it.” She kind of laughs now. “Obviously, I got over it really well.”
“And?” I let out a sigh of exasperation.
“And I completely ruined my metabolism, Emily. Two years of starving myself taught my body how to survive on practically nothing. And now I can diet until the cows come home and not lose an ounce. I swear if I were ever in a starvation camp, I’d be the last one standing.”
Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped Page 12