You broke Parker’s heart. He loved you. You’re the only girl he ever crushed, and now look what you’ve done.
Beginning 2
Parker has a problem. Can you help him? He loves you.
Beginning 3
Will you please get back together with my brother? I don’t know if that will solve his problem, but I know it will help.
Beginning 4
What’s your family like? Are your parents around or are they at this gala and that exhibit and this reception and that fundraiser?
Beginning 5
I’m afraid for my brother. Really, really afraid.
12 days before
Parker
Dad remembers to pay me this week, so I go to the supermarket and buy more food to hide in my closet. I spend it all, $350, loading two shopping carts.
“Hey, you’re here a lot,” the cashier says. “Buying for the U.S. Army or something?”
I shrug in response, but her comments freak me out totally.
When I get home, I vomit for the third time that day.
11 days before
Danielle
I can’t take it.
I have to say it out loud.
“Something’s wrong.”
Mom and Dad look up at me,
with their forks frozen in midair.
It’s the first time all of us
have had dinner together as a family
in two and a half weeks.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“Everything,” I say. “Dad’s sick
but everyone’s pretending he’s not.”
Something in Dad’s eyes tells me
I’ve crossed a line,
but almost half a second later,
so quickly I think maybe I imagined it,
he answers in a silky-smooth tone,
the kind his secretary calls his honey voice,
“Nobody’s pretending anything, sweetheart.”
“There’s something else,” I say.
Parker smashes my foot under the table.
I let out a yelp.
“What?” Mom asks.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
We go back to eating
as if
I never said anything at all.
The walls of our dining room
are covered with grotesque African masks
that we picked up on safari in Kenya two years ago.
That’s how I feel,
like I’m wearing a mask,
a mask that hides all this secret ugliness,
turning it inside,
forcing me to swallow it instead.
10 days before
Parker
“Dude! We’re going bowling!”
The mere thought of picking up a bowling ball makes me want to lie down.
“I’m kind of tired tonight,” I say.
I can hear Foxy’s impatience on the other end of the line. “Come on, Parker, you need to get out.”
“I’m just too tired,” I say. I barely have the energy to get up in the mornings.
He gives up. “Okay. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”
My life’s falling apart.
But, as long as I can do that thing three times a day, it’s okay.
9 days before
Danielle
I want things to be the way they used to be.
When did they get like this?
Were they always like this?
I know it has something to do with Dad’s cancer
and Parker’s problem.
But I have a feeling
things started way before that.
Like maybe when we had this
huge house built or
when Mom quit her job at Goldman Sachs,
so she could be chairperson
of this committee and that council.
Or maybe it started much earlier than that.
Maybe it started when Dad
went to Princeton
and decided Parker
should go there too.
8 days before
Parker
I manage to go all day without eating a single thing, but I’m starving by the time I get home.
When I look in my closet, I see I’ve run out of food.
I have no money.
I jump in my car, drive to the huge Wawa off the interstate that’s always crowded with truckers, and while the cashiers are busy ringing up lottery tickets and cigarettes, I stuff seven candy bars into my jacket. I notice there’s a lot more space in my jacket than I thought, so I stuff three more in it, and walk out.
Add “thief” to the list of things I don’t look like. I get away with it again.
7 days before
Danielle
“Mom, I have to talk to you.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m really late for your dad’s appointment.”
“You’re so busy!
You don’t pay attention!”
“What’s this about, Danielle?
Is it about your dad?”
“It’s … It’s … ”
“I don’t have a lot of time, sweetie.”
“Fine! Go!”
I run up the stairs, slam my door,
and hope Mom will follow me there.
But she doesn’t.
6 days before
Parker
I get dizzy all the time now.
My stomach’s been hurting.
My throat feels raw.
The other day, I think I saw blood in my vomit.
I’m running and fasting and using laxatives and vomiting four times a day.
But I’m still not getting skinnier.
I have to vary where I shop for food. The cashiers recognize me, and they make comments about how much I buy.
I drove almost two hours out of my way last night so I could shop at a different supermarket.
5 days before
Danielle
“Danielle?”
“Yes.”
“Myrna Katz. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Is Parker home?”
“Um, no. Can I take a message for him?”
“He missed his last appointment
and he hasn’t been returning calls to his cell.”
Pause.
“Danielle?”
“Yeah?”
“Is your mom or dad home?”
“No.”
Pause.
“Can you ask them to call me?”
4 days before
Parker
I’m walking to AP Physics with Amber when an overwhelming sensation of dizziness makes me trip over my feet.
“Parker?”
I realize I’ve crumpled against Amber, and she’s struggling to hold up my weight. I force myself to stand, clawing at the water fountain to steady myself.
“What happened?” she whispers. “Are you okay? I’ll take you to the school nurse.”
“No,” I say hoarsely. “I’m okay now.”
She fastens me with frantic eyes. “What’s happening to you, Parker?”
I swallow hard, feeling a cold sweat come over me. “Nothing. I just need … a minute.”
Amber holds me tighter. “Parker, you’ve lost weight.”
“No,” I say, my voice gaining in strength. I straighten up and shrug her off. “No, I haven’t.”
3 days before
Danielle
“You have bulimia.”
“What?” Parker asks.
“It’s an eating disorder.
Mostly girls have it.
You’re sick, Parker.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are!
You need help.
Look at you!
You can’t even stand up!”
He puts his hands over his ears.
“Shut up,” he says.
I start to cry.
“But I want to help you. You need help.”
He grabs my shoulders
and shakes me hard.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone!
Don’t—tell—anyone!”
He won’t stop shaking me
until I finally whimper,
“Okay, Parker, okay.”
2 days before
Parker
Track meet.
Hungry.
Tired.
Can’t think.
Dad here?
“Have fun.”
What?
Jerk with starter’s gun.
Drives blue Ford Bronco.
Hate blue Ford Broncos.
Gets out, looks at watch, pulls out gun, fires, back in car, leaves.
Stomach cramps.
Dad hugs me.
1 day before
Danielle
I pick up the phone
three times
and hang up
three times.
On my fourth try
I stay on.
But her cell must be turned off.
“Hi, um, Myrna,” I say.
“It’s Danielle.
Danielle Rabinowitz.
Parker’s sister?
Um, I need to tell you something.
It’s really important.
Can you call me?”
that day
Parker
I stay after school and run around the track for so long I almost pass out twice.
All I want to do is crawl into bed. I drive home, get out of the car, and limp into the house, but I don’t know if I’ll make it up the stairs. Before I can get to my room, though, I hear loud voices, and Mom and Dad suddenly appear on the landing in front of me.
Dad’s waving a piece of paper around. “You didn’t get in!” he screams. “You didn’t get into Princeton!”
“For goodness sake, David!” Mom shouts back. “Nothing he does is ever good enough for you!”
Track, forensics, youth group, peer leadership, Make-A-Wish Foundation, Student Council, SAT prep classes, AP classes … All my efforts of the last four years to get into the college of Dad’s choice whirl around me like the remnants of a last meal being flushed down a dark drain.
I go into my room because I have to lie down, I have to, but Dad follows me, so I leave and go into the bathroom, my sanctuary, but Dad follows me in there too, and he’s still screaming, and mom’s still screaming.
Knees buckle.
Smack.
Convulsing.
Dad kneels.
“Call an ambulance!
Oh, Parker, no.”
Black.
1 day after
Danielle
Do you know how many chances I had?
I will never forgive myself.
Or Mom.
Or Dad.
Or Parker.
2 days after
Parker
I wake up in the hospital.
At first I’m surprised.
Then I’m relieved.
I have all kinds of tubes in me—food tubes, breathing tubes—I think I even have a tube for going to the bathroom.
I had a seizure. I almost died.
They won’t let me vomit here. And they force me to eat.
I think I’ve gained weight.
3 days after
Danielle
In the doctor’s dimly lit office in the hospital,
the doctor says,
“Your son is bulimic.”
Dad: “What?”
Mom: (cries quietly into a tissue).
Dad: “But isn’t that … ”
Mom: (cries quietly into a tissue).
Dad: “But he’s a boy … ”
Mom: (cries quietly into a tissue).
I don’t say, “I told you so.”
I don’t say anything.
Mom turns to Dad
and sobs, “It’s just like … your cancer.”
“Except that Dad got help,” I say.
“And Parker didn’t.”
They both stare at me.
Then Dad cries.
4 days after
Parker
Foxy and Spaz pull up chairs and sit close. Amber holds my hand.
“I should’ve known,” she says, her voice cracking. “I should’ve helped.”
“We all should’ve helped,” Spaz says.
“We all should’ve known,” Foxy says.
How could they have known?
I didn’t even know.
“Parker,” Spaz says, looking down at the floor. “I … I … ”
We all wait for him to finish.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, looking at me.
I finally know what I was chosen for.
5 days after
Danielle
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rachel asks.
“My cousin had bulimia.
We could’ve talked.”
She hugs me close.
“I care,” she says.
I think of that list I made
of all the people I could’ve asked for help.
Rachel’s mom was on it,
but Rachel wasn’t.
Sometimes things are so obvious
they stare you right in the face
and you still can’t see them.
Not listening.
Not seeing.
Not paying attention.
I did it too.
6 days after
Parker
Julianne cries, and says over and over, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”
Before she leaves, she kisses me and says, “I love you so much, Parker, and when you forgive me—if you forgive me—I’ll be waiting for you.”
7 days after
Danielle
In Parker’s hospital room
there’s always a lot of crying,
a lot of apologizing,
even some joking,
and, finally, some talking.
Mom says things like,
“I should’ve noticed.
I can’t believe I didn’t.
Or maybe I did.
But I didn’t see.”
Dad says things like,
“First male breast cancer.
Now male bulimia.
We’re two very special guys, pardner.”
Nobody laughs.
But we know it’s just Dad’s way.
At least he’s trying.
It isn’t always easy
to hear these things
or say them
but it’s better than
that horrible silence.
That was like a heavy blanket,
dark and choking,
covering everything up.
This is like a blanket unfurled.
Kicking up dust,
making you gag and cough,
but at least it lets in light.
Parker doesn’t talk much.
Neither do I.
I write him another postcard.
Dear Parker,
No matter how ugly something is,
it’s better to see it than not see it.
Besides, beauty can be deceiving.
Love,
Danielle
P.S. I was wrong. You’re not worse than a girl.
8 days after
Parker
They’re letting me go home tomorrow.
I know things will be different.
A part of me feels good about that. Another part of me doesn’t.
I know I can’t have my old life back.
I also know I can do better.
And I don’t mean by being perfect.
9 days after
Danielle
Parker’s coming home.
I wrote a poem for him:
Who Are You?
Just because you break hearts
doesn’t make you a heartbreaker.
Just because you get straight As
doesn’t make you a success.
Just because you have a college consultant
doesn’t make you college-bound.
Just because you fail to act
doesn’t make you cowardly.
Just because you need help
doesn’t make you weak.
Just because the world sees you as something
or as nothing
doesn’t mean anything
at all.
Parker folds it carefully into his pocket.
“I’ll always keep it with my breath mints,”
he says. He winks at me.
“And I’ll publish it in the New Jersey Jewish Ledger.”
10 days after
Parker
I have a shrink. His name is Dr. Morrow. He tells me I have abnormally low self-esteem.
“That means you don’t think very highly of yourself,” he says.
He must think I can’t understand this, because he tries to bring it down to my level.
“You think you’re a loser. When you’re actually quite the opposite.”
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