What I Lost

by Alexandra Ballard

  When we parked, Lexi thrust her empty coffee cup at Ray and flounced inside, still pissed, although I wasn’t sure whether it was at Ray or herself.

  I emptied my almost full coffee in the gravel. I bet Ray regretted the Starbucks stop, the music, everything.

  “Thanks, Ray,” I said, passing him my cup, too. “Today was nice.”

  His face softened a little. “No problem. Just don’t tell anybody, okay?”

  Nurse Jill greeted us at the door. Lexi was gone. “Elizabeth,” she said, “Mary just got off the phone with the doctor who read your scans. She has your results. She’s waiting for you in her office.”

  The walk down the dark hallway took forever. Mary’s office door was open, the light like a beacon.

  “Good news!” she said the minute I walked in. “You’re clear.”

  “Clear?”

  “Your bone density is within the normal range.”

  I needed to sit. She said other things then, but I’d already tuned out.

  I was lucky. My brain flashed back to the older women in the waiting room, and the sign on the wall that read: Are you a woman? Are you over 65? Then the National Osteoporosis Foundation recommends you get your bone density checked today.

  I was forty-nine years ahead of schedule.

  I didn’t want the bones of a sixty-five-year-old. I wanted to be sixteen. Normal sixteen. “Mary, you told me at one of our first meetings that most of the girls who diet don’t end up like me. What makes me different? What makes me want to do this to myself?”

  “Plenty of scientists are trying to figure that out, Elizabeth,” she said. “One thing we now know is that there most likely is a genetic link.”

  “You mean this is in my family’s DNA, like heart disease?” Shay’s grandma suffered from heart disease, and Shay’s mom, a total neurotic, was constantly checking her own pulse. These diseases get passed on, her mom would say whenever Shay told her not to stress so much.

  Mary saw my concern. “Well, they’re still trying to figure that out. Eating disorders are very messy things. There’s not one single factor we can point to. It’s not one gene. Scientists believe there are probably a number of genetic markers that could make someone more likely to have an eating disorder, but we are still learning what—and where—they are.”

  I wanted it to be simple. I wanted to say, I got anorexia because of this, or because of that, or because of the other thing. I wanted to be able to blame something—or someone.

  “It’s a really complex and, frankly, confusing mix of genetics, society, parenting, and about a million other factors,” Mary continued. “But research shows that people with eating disorders in their family are five to six times more likely to develop one themselves.”

  “So do you think I got sick because of my mom?”

  Mary paused before answering. “From what you’ve told me, your mom does suffer from disordered eating—maybe more. But then there are people who grow up with a relative with an eating disorder and don’t develop anything. And there are people who get one with no family history at all.”

  All the women in my family seemed to have a touch of anorexia. My grandmother, too. Some families pass down musical talent. We passed down starving ourselves.

  “Mary, if I have a daughter someday, is she doomed, too?”

  Mary’s face was so sad it almost made me cry. “I don’t think so. Elizabeth, if it’s any consolation, there’s a big study going on right now to try to find the exact genes that are affected and how. When they can figure it out, there’s a chance it could lead to better treatment or even prevention someday.”

  I thought about the girl in Starbucks.

  I wish I looked like you.

  “I hope they hurry,” I said.

  Mary sighed. “Me too, Elizabeth. Me too.”

  When I left a few minutes later, I went straight to Michael’s office to find out about Lexi. His door was closed. Muted voices snuck out from time to time, but no words. I heard Lexi’s voice mixed in with others, so I sat on the carpet in the hall and waited. When the door finally opened, I saw Michael and Sally. Both looked grim. Then Lexi walked out, her face weirdly blank.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “You go first,” she said. “What were your results?”

  I felt guilty telling her mine. “I’m fine,” I said. “My bones are okay. What about you?”

  Then, to my total surprise, Lexi’s face lit up. “All I have is osteopenia in my spine and hip,” she said.

  I didn’t get how she could be smiling. Osteopenia meant your bones were already weaker than they should be. It was the precursor to osteoporosis, where your bones were so fragile they could fracture anytime.

  “I am so sorry,” I said, reaching for her.

  She pulled away. “No, don’t be. Can’t you see? This is something I might be able to fix. I may not ever get rid of my heart stuff, but this? The doctors say it might be reversible. I didn’t ruin myself forever.”

  She took my hands then. “I have a chance, Elizabeth. Before, I thought it was too late. But now? I have a chance.” She paused. “We both do.”

  19

  I went to bed early, exhausted from the day and stuffed from dinner. Salad with dressing. But I ate it. I didn’t want to get to a point where “just” osteopenia was good news.

  Moments after retreating under my covers, Margot barged in, flopping down on my bed like she owned it, and tossed her iPod and headphones on my blankets. “Where’s Lexi?” she asked, rolling onto her back and putting her feet up against the wall.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” I said, wishing my door had a lock. “She’s watching a movie.”

  “Oh. How was your bone density test?”

  “It’s fine. My bones are good.” I pointed at her headphones. “What are you listening to?”

  “A book about how to find inner peace. It’s by a monk. That’s great news, about your bones.”

  “Thanks. Is the book working?”

  “Not yet.”

  Margot constantly listened to audiobooks on her headphones. She said the voices relaxed her. Last week, she’d told me about a book she’d just finished on the Civil War, and as she spoke, recounting stories we’d never heard in AP History, I’d wanted her to keep talking. It was weird—I’d never felt that way about any history teacher.

  Margot sat up and rummaged through the pockets of her overalls. “Hey, before I forget, I have a postcard for you. I picked it up at mail call.”

  On the front was a penguin wearing a scarf. Stay Cool, it read. On the back Katrina had written, Miss you soooooo much! Get better! XOXO Katrina, Shay & Priya. She’d signed all their names. Again.

  Margot scratched her ear. “Good postcard?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” I must not have sounded grateful enough.

  “Hey, at least you got something.”

  If she wanted to shut me up, it worked. We’d been here for eight days and she’d gotten nothing. “Margot, I’m—”

  She cut me off. She didn’t like talking about personal stuff. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  No. I want to go to bed. “Sure,” I said to her.

  “When did you first know you’d crossed over into the land of crazy?”

  Now I definitely didn’t want to talk.

  I couldn’t help but think about it, though. Was it when Katrina called me emo? Or in May, when I stopped going out with friends if food was involved? Or when I started not being able to go to sleep unless I’d run six miles that day? Or was it the night Charlie and I—I stopped myself from even thinking about it. Don’t go there.

  Besides, me coming here had nothing to do with Charlie. Not directly, anyway. When I went down, it was in flames. Public, painful flames. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. The Harvest Concert, a week before I checked in to Wallingfield.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, how Americana of you. Do tell.”

  I shook my head. “Not something I want to talk about.”

 
; “Oh, come on. It’s not like they won’t make you discuss it in group sometime anyway.”

  She was right, and that, right there, was what sucked most about Wallingfield. They got everything out of you eventually. You had no secrets. Mary already knew what happened—she’d been briefed on it before I’d even arrived.

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  When the choir director asked for a volunteer the day of our annual Harvest Concert, I’d shrunk down in my seat like everybody else in the room.

  Ms. Parker wanted someone to dress up like a scarecrow, put on a harness, and fly above the crowd waving a cardboard moon as the choir sang Neil Young’s song “Harvest Moon,” which Ms. Parker had arranged for us herself. People weren’t exactly falling over themselves to volunteer. Then Heather—who else?—called out, “Elizabeth will do it!” and people sat up straight again. A few snickered.

  “Wonderful!” Ms. Parker said. “Now, altos, let’s go over the chor—”

  I raised my hand. “Ms. Parker, I don’t think I’m a good candidate. I’m”—what was I?—“I’m afraid of heights.”

  She frowned. “Oh.” Then she turned to everybody else. “Elizabeth is afraid of heights. Will anybody else volunteer? Raise a hand, please.”

  No one did.

  Ms. Parker turned to me one more time and, in front of everybody, asked me to reconsider.

  “I—I—don’t think—”

  “Great!” said Ms. Parker, who was a little desperate. “Thank you so much, Elizabeth!”

  Heather smirked at me.

  When Charlie and I broke up, and he “officially” started seeing her again, I’d thought I was off the hook. But girls like Heather never forget. She was just waiting for Charlie to dump me, and when he did, she didn’t waste any time. Almost right away the rumors started—that I was anorexic, that I’d become a druggie, that I had cancer. She wasn’t exactly subtle. She glared at me during lunch. But a stunt like this was a new low.

  “I think she does it because he still likes you,” Katrina had said on our way out of Choir.

  I didn’t believe her. “He dumped me.”

  “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t still like you.”

  Not possible. Not after that night.

  “Well, I heard that one of Charlie’s friends called her ‘sloppy seconds’ behind her back the other day and it got back to her.”

  A flush of pleasure went through me even though this development would definitely make things worse for me. “How do you know?”

  “I heard a rumor.”

  Crap. In addition to believing Charlie belonged to her, Heather considered herself the queen of everything at our school. And for the most part, she was: junior class president, “gifted” cheerleader, teacher suck-up. Possessor of both a great fake ID and a cousin who worked at 7-Eleven and let her buy beer with it.

  “You’re wrong,” I said.

  “I’m not. Besides, it’s obvious that he still likes you.”

  “How?”

  “The way he looks at you.”

  “He never looks at me,” I said.

  “You just don’t see it. You never see anything good about yourself.” She paused. “Anyway, when it comes to Charlie, I’m glad. You’re better off without him.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Elizabeth, you are, and you know it. Look, I’m going to be late for class. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  I didn’t answer her.

  That night, I showed up for the concert a half hour early like Ms. Parker wanted and tried to make it all the way backstage without anybody seeing me. The black scarecrow vest she’d given me was full of patches and sprouts of glued-on hay that scratched me through my black T-shirt. I’d nixed the matching pants. Ditto the hat. No effing way was I wearing a spray-painted-brown witch’s hat. I looked like a loser already.

  To make matters worse, the room kept spinning like a carnival ride. I’d eaten four almonds for breakfast and was too stressed to eat lunch. The last things I’d eaten were my three bites of dinner, which I divided in half so they looked like six. I would’ve skipped the meal entirely except I didn’t want Mom and Dad to get suspicious. I’d learned that as long as I ate something they were happy. Now, totally dizzy, I wondered if a few more bites would have been smart.

  The air hung dark and heavy behind the navy-blue velvet curtain. Tuck, the pimply stage-crew guy, bustled around, carrying ropes, tying knots, and testing lines hanging from the ceiling. He was also a junior, but we’d never talked. He fastened the last carabiner and tested it with a shake. “You ready?”

  I nodded.

  He didn’t look convinced. “Remember, hold on to the ropes so you stay upright. Got it?”

  The harness was tight. Too tight. It hooked around the backs of my thighs, giving me a sweatpant bubble butt in the back and a penis-like bulge in the front.

  Tuck ripped off a piece of duct tape. “I’m going to do the moon now, okay?”

  My hairs stood up. “Why do you need duct tape? I’m just holding it, right?”

  “Didn’t Ms. Parker tell you? I’m taping the moon to you.”

  “What? You don’t need to do that. I swear I’ll hold it really tight.” Right in front of my face, I almost added.

  He shrugged. “Sorry. Ms. Parker’s orders.”

  “Why do you guys even need a person at all? Couldn’t you have just hung a paper moon up there?”

  He started singing. “Only a paper moon…”

  This was no time for singing. I glared at him.

  “What? It’s a famous Frank Sinatra song. Haven’t you heard it?” He hummed a few more bars. “No?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Personally I think it would have been easier to suspend a moon from the rafters with some rope, but Ms. Parker wanted a scarecrow to hold it. I think the whole thing is lame—no offense or anything.”

  “None taken. It wasn’t like I volunteered or anything.”

  “Yeah, I heard you were voluntold.”

  “Voluntold?”

  “Yeah, you know, someone asks for volunteers and then makes somebody who doesn’t volunteer do it?”

  “Oh, right.” I wanted to ask him what else he’d heard, but the metallic rip of duct tape shut me up. Tuck wrapped a single piece across the moon, over my shoulder, and then around the other side.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. The room spun.

  “If you say so.” Tuck bit his bottom lip and gave the carabiners one last shake. “If you have any problems, just look for me down below, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, wishing my voice wasn’t shaking.

  Ms. Parker blew in like a whirlwind, her heels clacking on the stage floor. “Is she ready?” Tuck nodded, and Ms. Parker looked me up and down. My feet were already asleep. “Perfect.” She peered at me. “Actually, you look a little peaked. Are you feeling all right?”

  I shrug-nodded.

  “All right, then,” Ms. Parker announced, nodding to herself. “Showtime!” And with that, Tuck pulled the rope and I was jerked slowly up to the rafters.

  The plan was for me to hang up high, where no one could see me, and then Tuck would lower me into position as the last of the three songs, “Harvest Moon,” started. Then I’d swing around with the moon and be completely humiliated in front of the entire school. Good times.

  As I dangled, I willed myself not to look down. The harness dug into my legs and cut off my circulation. I tried to wriggle my toes to get the blood moving, but they just hung there.

  I glanced at my watch. Two songs, or about six minutes to go until my debut. I fought back the urge to vomit onto the floor. It would really splatter from so high up. The world went fuzzy. I shook myself back into focus. Idiot. You should have eaten something. Anything.

  And then I heard it. The twang of a guitar. “On this har-vest mo-on,” the choir sang. My ropes twitched, and when I looked down, I saw Tuck wrestling with them like a b
alloon handler at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. With every yank, I lurched violently down a foot or so, my dead legs swinging like a doll’s. The audience tittered. The lights were hot. My head hurt.

  The harness started to spin. I twisted backward, my bubble butt waggling at the audience. I tried to bicycle-kick my legs to turn around, but they stayed asleep. I waved my arms, frantic now, trying to gain momentum to reposition myself. Someone in the audience yelled, “It’s a bird! It’s a plane!”

  Tuck yanked on something, and I spun around with so much centrifugal force it made me dizzy. I faced the audience now and immediately noticed a small group of senior boys, maybe on the lacrosse team, cheering and laughing at me. This isn’t happening, I thought. This can’t be happening.

  In the crowd I saw Heather next to Charlie, gleefully clapping and yelling something I couldn’t make out. At least Charlie wasn’t cheering. He just stared at the stage like he was watching a car crash on YouTube.

  And then Charlie’s face and the rest of the audience started to pixelate. I gripped the ropes, but I felt the strength seeping out of my fingers. I tried to focus, but I could barely make out Ms. Parker nodding at me once, twice, and then continuously, frantically, while still trying desperately to conduct. Everybody was laughing now. The choir stopped singing and turned around to watch me. I fumbled with the moon, which had turned off-kilter, and accidentally detached the tape. The moon hit the floor with a THWAP!

  And then I flipped over, my bubble butt waggling in the air. The audience gasped.

  And that was the last thing I remembered.

  “… So I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a gash over my eye. I guess Tuck screwed up and I fell. I heard later that he’d managed to slow me down with the ropes, so I didn’t hit the ground super hard, but since I’d already passed out I didn’t do anything to break my fall, so my head hit first.

  “Later, at the ER, one of the doctors told my parents that my heart was way too slow, and that my weight was dangerously low for my height. Based on those two things, he thought I might need to go into residential treatment. So the next day, they brought me to Dr. Brach, the family doctor, who agreed. Two days after that, they brought me here.”