What I Lost

by Alexandra Ballard

  I sank down on a rock and pressed my eyes into my kneecaps as I tried to catch my breath. Behind me I heard the door open and Ray’s voice. “Elizabeth?”

  I heard his feet crunching on the gravel.

  I wasn’t ready to go back. “Um, do you think you could give me a second?” I asked, trying to sound normal. “I just need a minute. Please? I’m not going to run anymore. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  Ray paused before answering. “Okay, kiddo. You got a minute. Not much longer, though, okay?”

  “Thanks.” I put my head in my hands.

  And right then I knew. If I went home and started to restrict my eating again, I would shrivel up like a dry plant. If I ever wanted to run again—to live again—I’d have to get better. And I’d have to do it for me.

  I sat on the hard rock for a few more minutes until the bump on my tailbone started to ache. Then I stood up and walked inside.

  Margot and Lexi were waiting for me on the bench next to the nurses’ station. They weren’t supposed to be there. Evening group had just started, and activities were mandatory around here. I shot them a questioning look and they held up two cups of fluorescent-yellow Gatorade. Of course. If you said you felt dizzy or like you might pass out, the nurses gave you Gatorade and let you sit on the bench to drink it.

  “I felt faint,” Margot said, gesturing to the cup in her hand.

  “You never feel faint.” I sat down heavily next to her.

  “True, but tonight I did,” she said.

  I looked at Lexi. “I felt faint too,” she said.

  Lexi took a tiny sip of her Gatorade. Lexi was drinking calories. By choice. Just so she could make sure I was okay. I should have felt a rush of gratitude or something, but all I felt was flat.

  Margot leaned over and awkwardly patted me. I leaned against her, assuming she’d put her arm around my shoulders. Instead, she jerked away. “Sorry,” she said. “Touchy-feely stuff isn’t exactly my family’s specialty.”

  “It’s okay.” I sat there, staring at my hands.

  “You know,” she said, bumping me with her shoulder, “when you want to run away, it helps to actually run. For more than, like, ten paces.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I heard that works. I’ll try it next time.”

  “Actually, don’t,” Lexi said. “We sort of like having you here.” She put her arm around me and squeezed, hard. I closed my eyes and let my body relax.

  After Lexi and Margot took their final swigs of Gatorade, we went through the foyer doors. Nurse Jill awaited, arms crossed, holding an Ensure. I sighed and took it without complaint.

  23

  At breakfast the next morning, day 11 at Wallingfield, I was sure all the girls would stare at me after my great dinner escape. But aside from a couple of quick glances, everybody seemed to have their own issues to worry about. Like their breakfasts.

  I found a big bowl of cottage cheese on my tray. I hated cottage cheese. When I asked Kay why it was on my tray, she said I’d assigned it to myself. Sure enough, when I looked at my check sheet, there it was: ½ cup cottage cheese—2 proteins—in my very own handwriting. How could I have done that? The stuff was vile, all watery and chunky like vomit.

  I hadn’t cried last night, but the tears were there, just waiting for the right opportunity to spill. I could picture them inside, each little blob of salt water fighting in its hurry to be number one in line to get out. When that first spoonful of cottage cheese passed under my nose, the tears burst out of me. I bawled like a kid getting a shot while, around me, everyone tried to eat and pretend my sobbing wasn’t happening. I cried so hard that when I asked Kay if I could take my tray to Mary’s office, she walked me there herself.

  After I arrived, sniveling and all snotty, Mary took one look at me and passed the tissue box. She waited until my sobs slowed and turned into hiccups before saying, “So, what happened last night?”

  “I called Charlie.”

  She nodded. I’d told her our basic story already. We’d gone out and he’d dumped me and I was sad. Now, on that couch, I thought I’d just tell her about the phone call. But then I kept going and recounted the entire conversation word for excruciating word. Then it was like I couldn’t stop, like I had diarrhea of the mouth, and I told her about the jar of sand, which I’d dumped into the trash in a fit of anger before I went to sleep, along with the House of Pizza plastic ring and the poster. I’d meant to toss the brass ring in the trash too, but when I’d reached for it, I couldn’t get myself to take it off. I showed it to Mary now, rubbing it with my thumb like I always did. And, like it always did, it calmed me down a little.

  When I said, “It’s my fault we broke up in the first place,” Mary put her notepad aside and gave me a look that said, I was listening before, but now I’m REALLY listening.

  I’d worn a dark blue sundress that night. I’d bought it just for our date. I’d borrowed Mom’s gold necklace that dangled almost to my belly button, and painted my toenails a matching blue so they’d look good in my favorite pair of brown strappy wedge sandals.

  Charlie had dressed up, too, in a navy-blue blazer and green Vineyard Vines tie with little swordfish on it. He’d texted earlier in the day, told me to be ready at seven, and to wear something nice. No occasion, he’d said when I asked. Just because. It was all very romantic. And then, when he picked me up, he looked so hot that I decided right then and there. It was time.

  We’d come close to having sex a couple of times, but I’d never felt ready. Two weeks earlier, when we were messing around in his room, I’d stopped him at the last minute. “I’m sorry,” I’d said.

  “It’s okay,” he’d responded, whispering into my hair. “It has to be right.”

  But a few days later he’d tried again when we were fooling around on the giant sectional couch in his basement. I’d moved his hand just as he reached for the zipper on my jeans. This time, when I said no, he’d groaned and said, just a little annoyed, “It’s okay if you’re not ready. I get it.”

  I’d said I was sorry, and he’d sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t push you.”

  Now, as we walked to his car, I imagined how excited he’d be when I told him I was ready. Then I pictured myself naked next to him and shuddered.

  I can’t.

  You can. You have to.

  “Where are we going?” I asked in the car, raising my voice over the radio.

  “You’ll see!” he said, smiling. Music blaring, he threw the car into drive and off we went. Summer air rushed in through the sunroof and rippled my hair, and I felt like I was flying.

  And then we rolled up to the Navigator Room. It was the fanciest restaurant in town. Dad took Mom there for her birthday dinner every year. This had to be a punishment from the universe. My stomach cramped. Breathe, Elizabeth. You can get a salad. But I knew that wasn’t true. You didn’t get just a salad at a place like the Navigator Room.

  “Are you okay?” Charlie put his hot hand on my bare knee and squeezed.

  No. Not there. I have lots of fat there.

  I tried to smile. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I just got some dust in my eye, that’s all.”

  Charlie let out a short, tight breath and shook his head a little. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  He’d made a reservation, and the hostess led us to a big table with a white tablecloth, a vase with a single white rose, and wineglasses. I immediately pictured the table loaded down with food and couldn’t sit still. I started jiggling my foot, a preemptive strike against the calories I knew I was about to consume.

  Charlie pretended not to notice, but I know he did. “It’s my treat, okay?” He was trying hard.

  “Wow. Thanks.” Him paying made everything worse. I didn’t want to waste his money, but I couldn’t eat the food on this menu. Salmon en croûte. What the heck was that? Chicken with browned butter. Breaded pork chops. Veal. Everything came smothered in sauce, or was fried, or was fattening.

  “Elizabeth?”

>   “Huh?”

  “Elizabeth, you’re so pale. Are you all right?”

  I spoke faster than I should have. “Totally. Sorry. It’s just that everything looks so good I can’t decide what to order.” I scanned the options again. Manhattan clam chowder. Tomato-based broth. No cream. Yes! “I think I’m going to have a cup of the Manhattan clam chowder and maybe a house salad.”

  His face fell.

  I panicked. I could feel his disappointment from across the table. I’d been feeling it more often lately. I tried again. “You know, actually, the salmon sounds good. I’ll have the salmon.” I didn’t want the salmon. But I didn’t want to upset Charlie more.

  He exhaled. “Cool. I’m getting steak. Oh, and fried calamari. Do you like calamari?”

  I had, once. “I love it!” I said.

  We ordered, and when the menus were gone, I relaxed. Charlie told me funny stories about sailing and his summers on the Vineyard, and before I knew it I was having a good time.

  And then the waiter brought the calamari, and the night came to a shuddering halt. Charlie didn’t notice. “Awesome,” he said, practically drooling over the plate of golden tentacles and rings in the waiter’s hands. “Thank you so much.”

  Charlie offered the plate to me first. “Take some,” he said. “This stuff is so good.”

  I plucked one ring off the overwhelming pile. “Oh, come on, take more than that,” he said, and shoveled a greasy heap onto my plate. Then he bulldozed an even bigger pile onto his plate and dug in, swishing each piece in the tartar sauce it came with.

  After eating almost his whole plate, he looked at mine and frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?”

  No. “Of course! I love calamari. Seriously.” I picked up a ring and held it to my lips. My fingers already felt greasy. I nipped at it with my front teeth. “Mmmm,” I said, “so good!” I took a second nibble. Then I scraped the crust off the remaining bit, making sure to get even the tiniest crumbs off the inside of the ring. Next I dabbed at it with my napkin to get the remaining oil off, and finally put the rest of the slimy piece in my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. I exhaled.

  One down. Only about twenty more to go.

  “Elizabeth.” Charlie’s voice caught me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Please eat.”

  “I am, silly! I just ate one.” I touched his hand. He yanked it away.

  “Barely. Have you been eating at all?”

  “Yes! Of course,” I snapped, but a part of me wanted to tell the truth, to say, All I ate was one apple and four Diet Cokes today. And I’m scared. But I couldn’t. “I’m fine,” I said instead.

  Our entrées came. Charlie ate his steak in silence, stabbing each piece with a fork. I ate two peas and ignored the fact that Charlie wasn’t speaking. He’d been less patient about food in general with me lately, and I’d started trying to make plans with him that didn’t include eating.

  The salmon in front of me was wrapped in pastry dough. What did he want me to do? Eat that? The whole thing was drowning in hollandaise sauce. I couldn’t touch it even though I really did want to make Charlie happy. But I couldn’t let that grossness enter my body. So I sat there, miserable, and watched his steak disappear, the only noise the occasional scrape of his knife on his porcelain plate.

  He asked for the check while our plates were still on the table.

  Back in the car Charlie drove fast, and it scared me. When we got to my house, the windows were dark.

  “Want to come in? My parents are out for at least two more hours.”

  He hesitated, so I leaned over and pushed my lips hard against his. I placed my hand on his thigh, rubbing it with my thumb. “Please?” I whispered, biting his lip just a little.

  He paused before nodding.

  When we got to my room, I locked my door and kicked off my sandals, heart pounding. I removed Mom’s necklace and placed it carefully on my bedside table. From his one-word answers in the car, I could tell he was frustrated. What happened next needed to be perfect. I slid under my cold covers. Goose bumps popped up on my arms and legs, and I prayed that they’d disappear before Charlie felt them. I wriggled out of my sundress and tossed it on the floor.

  “Will you come in with me?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “Please?”

  “Okay.” He sat down and took off his clothes piece by piece, laying each one over the back of my desk chair, until he was wearing nothing but light-blue boxer shorts.

  He slipped under the covers next to me. I leaned over and kissed him. I was never this forward. But my gut said if I wanted to keep him, this was what I’d have to do. He curled his fingers around my waist. I tried not to flinch. I’d lost 2 more pounds, was down to 105, but I still wished there was a way to do this without him having to touch me at all.

  He kissed me again and our teeth hit. “Sorry,” he whispered, smoothing back my hair. “Did that hurt?”

  I shook my head.

  He ran his hand up my spine, his fingers lingering on my vertebrae, each one a little hill. In the dark he couldn’t see the bruises that crested each one like bluish snow.

  I shivered even though Charlie’s skin was warm.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he whispered, pulling away.

  “Yes. I want to do this. Now. I want to do this with you.” I meant to sound strong and sure, but my voice shook.

  “Okay,” he murmured in my ear. Then he leaned over and fiddled with what I guessed was a condom. I couldn’t get myself to look.

  When he ripped it open, I heard the flutter of the wrapper on the floor and I made a mental note to make sure I hid it so Mom wouldn’t see it later. After he’d put it on, his hands explored me and his lips were on my shoulder and I couldn’t breathe and suddenly all I wanted to do was put on my comfy clothes and cry.

  But I stuck with it. His skin pulsed hot and smooth, and once he was on top of me I felt small and hidden and I relaxed a little.

  “Is this okay?” he whispered.

  I nodded.

  “Tell me if it hurts. I can stop whenever.”

  I nodded again and wrapped my arms around him. He was warmer than a blanket and I loved him for being so sweet and for touching me with such gentle hands.

  I’m about to not be a virgin anymore.

  And then, right that very second, he rolled off me, taking the covers with him.

  I snatched them back, wondering what part of me he didn’t like. “Is everything okay?”

  He didn’t answer. He was breathing hard and I thought I heard him curse under his breath.

  “What’s wrong? What is it? What did I do?”

  He stayed quiet for a few seconds before answering. “I can’t do this. I thought I wanted to, but I keep worrying that you’ll break. All I see are your bones and it scares me. I thought that if we got, you know, all into it, I wouldn’t notice. But you feel like a skeleton.” He scooted to the far side of the bed and balled up my purple sheet in his hands.

  “Charlie, I’m sorry. I can be softer. I’m just nervous. Let’s try agai—”

  His jaw muscles tensed. “Elizabeth, your bones hurt me. Your hips dug into mine so much that I couldn’t even concentrate on what I was doing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice thick. “Let’s try again. I was just nervous. That’s all.” I knew I sounded desperate, but I didn’t care. I was desperate.

  “I can’t, Elizabeth. You didn’t even move. You barely kissed me. I want to be with a girl who wants me, too.”

  The hurt in his voice surprised me. Wasn’t he supposed to be happy just having sex?

  “I do want you. I’m sorry. Please.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Charlie, wait.”

  He stood up, shirt and blazer in hand. He looked so tall and his brown hair was messed up in the cutest way and I desperately wanted to run my fingers through it and pull him back to me, but I couldn’t get out of bed because then he’d see me.<
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  But if I didn’t get up, he’d leave.

  In desperation I pulled my duvet around me like a robe and stood. Except that I stepped on a corner and stumbled and the duvet fell to the ground and then I was standing, naked, behind him.

  Charlie turned around and when he saw me he went still. Even though I wanted more than anything to dive back under the safety of my covers, I forced myself not to move, to let him look. To show him I was his.

  His eyes traveled over me for a long second. Then he reached past me, picked up the duvet on the floor, and carefully wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. I heard his voice catch. “I can’t do this. I can’t handle it. I—” And then he was gone.

  I heard his car rumble to life and the scatter of gravel on the driveway, and for a second I wondered what Dad would say when he saw the tire marks tomorrow. Then I got into bed and tried to keep from coming completely apart.

  The next morning, I lay there, hollowed out. My stomach growled. Let it complain, I thought. I don’t deserve to eat.

  At ten a.m. I got a text.

  I think we should just be friends. Sorry.

  * * *

  When I finished talking, Mary didn’t say anything at first. Her brows were scrunched and her lips were pursed, like she was deciding what to say.

  I squirmed in my seat like a little kid and bit my thumbnail down to the painful part. I waited for her to ask me how I could possibly think he’d sent all those packages after we’d broken up like we did. Because, now that I thought about it, I didn’t know myself.

  When she finally spoke, all she said was, “That sounds like an incredibly painful experience, Elizabeth. Thank you for sharing it with me.” She paused. “I’m curious to know how you are feeling now that you’ve spoken about it.”