by Lane Hart
“Bulimic,” I mutter, sitting back on my knees.
“Yeah. You knew?” he asks. “Why didn’t you do anything, since you’re her husband and all?”
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Pretty bad. They took her to the hospital up there. He said she was severely dehydrated and her kidney function was reduced or something like that. As soon as they get the referral and shit, they’re gonna admit her into Duke’s inpatient rehab or whatever.”
“So she’ll be here in a few days?”
“Yeah, in Durham.”
…
Two days later and I’m walking up the sidewalk that runs along a lake out in front of the rehab center. I came real close to going up to New York, but since I haven’t received my winnings yet and didn’t know when Hailey and her family would be coming back to North Carolina, I was afraid I would spend money I don’t have to get up there, only to miss them.
Stepping into the open lobby lined with comfy sofas and a long counter, it reminds me more of a hotel than a treatment center.
“Hi, can I help you?” a white-haired, older lady asks.
“Hey, I’m here to see my wife, Hailey Abrams,” I tell her, twisting the wedding band around on my left hand. Thankfully, Claire brought my bag with my ring in it to the airport where they detained me in a tiny room for hours because they thought I was a security threat. The receptionist flips through some papers on a clipboard. “Maybe Hailey Abrams Reed,” I add, although I’m guessing she hasn’t officially taken my name.
“Your name?” she asks.
“Mason Reed.”
“Sorry, sir, but you’re not listed on her guest list.”
Well, fuck.
“Could you just tell her I’m here and ask if she wants to see me?” I request as sweetly as possible.
“Unfortunately, we’re not allowed to do that. She has to add you on her own.”
Not sure what to do, I hang my head in defeat. Hell, I know what I want to do. I want to take off down the hall looking for her, but they probably have security who will arrest me before I find her.
“What about a note? Could I leave her a letter?”
“It would have to be approved by her doctor,” the lady says, but doesn’t offer me pen or paper.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, all I find is a handful of change and an empty chewing gum wrapper. I might be able to fit a few words on there…if I had a pen. I look over the counter and see one lying unused so I grab it. Then I tap it against my lips trying to figure out what exactly to say. Nothing seems adequate that will fit on a tiny scrap of paper.
Chapter Thirty
Hailey
After a tour of the grounds, I decide to finish unpackin’ my suitcase. I don’t really have the energy to do it, but since it’s takin’ up my full bed, I can’t go to sleep until I put everything away. When I pick up a pile of shirts, somethin’ flutters to the floor. I put my clothes in a drawer, and then bend down and pick up the foil gum wrapper, wonderin’ how it got in with my laundry. I ball it up to throw it in the trash but it looks like words are written on the inside. Flattenin’ it out again, I realize it says, “So worried and miss you. Please add me to your list. Love, Mason.”
I re-read the short message over and over again, swipin’ away tears that are automatically replaced with more. He was here. Why won’t he give up? I’m such a bitch for bein’ glad that he hasn’t. Despite the tears, and the shit he pulled the night of his fight, he still managed to put a smile on my face.
…
The next mornin’, I have my first therapy session, doctor exam, and meetin’ with a registered dietician, and then I take a yoga class after lunch. The center is a nice place, almost like a spa, and everyone is really welcoming and friendly. My only complaint is that I have to have a babysitter with me whenever I go to the bathroom or shower. It’s embarrassin’, but I know it’s necessary. The compulsion is still there, stronger than usual because it feels like my life is in complete chaos. Throwin’ up…it’s a way for me to be in control of somethin’ when there’s nothin’ else I can do. I feel like a drifter with no real direction or purpose. My parents were right, I’ve hit rock bottom and need help to find my way out of this dark, bottomless pit. It’s a horrible place to be, and I’m a terrible daughter for worryin’ them. At twenty-seven, I’m not capable of takin’ care of myself, which is really freakin’ pathetic.
Just as I’m climbin’ into bed to go to sleep, I hear the crinklin’ of a folded piece of notebook paper on my pillow, partially hidden underneath the comforter. I quickly turn the lamp back on to sit down to read it, hopin’ it’s from Mason. In the same handwritin’ as on the gum wrapper, it says on the front,
“Hey, sweetheart. I wish I could see you and hold you. If I were there, I would tell you how beautiful you are and kiss every inch of your gorgeous body. Get better and then give us a chance. I know that deep down you want to, so just forget everything else. There’s only you and me. The rest we can figure out together. Love, Mason.”
On the back are the sweet song lyrics of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” the same song an Elvis impersonator sang right before we got married.
I fall asleep holdin’ his note like a silly teenage girl, but it’s the closest thing I have to holdin’ him.
…
The next day I meet with Dora again, a middle-aged therapist with long brown hair and kind, almond eyes. This session is much more intense and personal, whereas yesterday was more of a general overview of what to expect while I’m here.
“Do you remember how old you were when you first had a negative thought about yourself?”
I squirm in my chair at the question while I try to think back.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Dora says. “Walk through your thought process with me so I can understand.”
I nod and nervously push my hair behind my ear. The truth is somethin’ I’ve never actually admitted to anyone, and it’s probably gonna sound stupid…
“Hailey?” she prompts again. “Don’t hold back.”
Blowing out a breath, I spill it. “I was just thinkin’ that ever since I was a little girl I always thought my mom was…perfect. She’s beautiful in an undeniable way.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” she asks.
“Um, yeah, I think so. On my phone.” My face warms when I pull it out of my pocket because the rules say I’m not supposed to have my phone here, but of course I do. I can’t bear to be without it. I haven’t received a single message from Mason, which sort of makes me feel crazy.
“Can I see?” Dora asks instead of bitchin’ at me for breakin’ the rule.
“Sure.” I go through my camera roll and find one of my mom and dad from Linc’s wedding, then I offer it to her.
“Wow, your parents are very attractive,” the therapist states the obvious before handin’ my phone back to me. “So tell me why you brought up your mother when I asked about your negative thoughts about yourself. Has she ever made you feel-”
“No,” I assure her. “Nothing like that. My mom’s great.” I look down at the photo thinkin’ it should be a given. “It’s just that she’s so petite and beautiful and I’m…huge. I was bigger than her and every other girl in my school when I was only about ten.”
“You don’t see the resemblance? Because to me, you two look very much alike.”
“Not really, no.”
“So why do you think being tall is a negative trait?” she asks.
“Because men are supposed to be big and tall, not women. A lot of the men I’ve dated have been my height or shorter.”
“Did that bother them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they ever say anything to you about it?
I consider her question, but don’t recall any of my former dates or exes mentionin’ anything specific. “Not that I remember.”
“So it only bothered you?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Has anyone ever mad
e any disparaging comments about your physical appearance?”
I laugh aloud at that question. “Well yeah, of course. I work in the modelin’ industry. My agency and potential clients constantly say I’m too curvy for a job.”
“So they’re looking for a specific body type and say that yours is not what they’re looking for?”
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“But they don’t say that you personally are unattractive or overweight?” she asks with a tilt of her head.
“They may not say those exact words, but that’s what they mean when they say I’m not the right body type.”
“Is that really what they mean?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my response. “What if a Broadway play was having tryouts for the role of a college student and they told all women over the age of twenty-five that they were not in the age range they were looking for. Does that mean that they are saying anything negative about those women personally? Would that mean that they were not brilliant actresses just because they were turned down for a specific role?”
“Of course not, but it’s not the same-”
“It isn’t? Why not?”
I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t have a rebuttal.
“Hailey, just because you don’t fit in one particular box, it doesn’t negate your worth or your beauty. I’m willing to bet that there is a place where you belong, where you’re exactly what they’re looking for. Maybe you’ve just narrowed your search and it’s too small for you to see.”
“So I don’t belong in modelin’?” I ask.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” she tells me with a shake of her head. “If that’s what you want to do, then do it. But you should do it as you are, not how you wish you were. The middle-aged actress has to accept the fact that she can’t portray a role as a college student. That doesn’t mean she isn’t the best damn actress the world has ever seen in another show.”
“I don’t want to be called a fat model, plus sized, or whatever term you want to use,” I admit.
“Unfortunately, those terms are unchangeable by everyone except the industry. More accurate terms would be average woman, realistic size or even healthy. Based on height and weight charts you are not healthy. You’re underweight and nowhere near ‘overweight’ or ‘fat.’ Shouldn’t healthy be your goal? Happy would be a good goal, too.”
“I want to be happy,” I admit. My thoughts instantly go to Mason. I had never been as close to happy and carefree as I was that week with him, and the crazy night we got married. Then again yesterday and the day before, just gettin’ sweet notes from him.
“Would you like to share what brought the sudden smile to your face?” the therapist asks.
“I was just thinkin’ about someone who has a way of makin’ me laugh and smile when I need it the most.”
“A friend?” she asks.
“Somethin’ like that.” I cross my arms over my chest to hide the ring I still wear for some reason on my left hand.
“Well, if he has the ability to make you happy then that sounds like someone you need to spend as much time with as possible. Has he been by to see you during visiting hours?”
My smile slips. “How did you know it was a he?” I ask her.
“Easy, because your face lit up like Christmas when you thought of him. People smile when they think of family or friends, but they glow when thinking about someone they’re in love with.”
“Mason’s not…I mean…I love him, but he’s not ready to settle down. He’s seven years younger than me and just so goofy and funny; he has the same effect on everyone.”
“So you’re not together?” she asks with a furrowed brow.
“No.”
“Why not? Your choice, I’m guessing.”
“He, um, kissed another woman, which just proved what I already knew; we wouldn’t ever work. I mean, we live in different states and he’s so young…”
“He lives here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And now you live here.”
“Only temporarily,” I assure her. “My parents convinced me to get treatment locally, but I want to go back to New York.”
“So if you could forgive his alleged…transgression, and if it wasn’t for the distance and age, you would be together?”
“No,” I say, hangin’ my head. “He can’t be monogamous, and even if he could, his career is just gettin’ started, so a relationship is out of the question for him. Even if he agreed to stop seein’ other women, I don’t want him to give up fightin’ for me. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth him losin’ a million-dollar MMA contract and a chance at greatness-”
“Isn’t that his decision to make?” she interrupts my rant, echoin’ the same thing Jude had asked me at the pool.
“Well yeah, but he’s too young and stupid to see how big of an opportunity this is for him.”
“Is he? Or is he the smart one for realizing that being with you is even bigger? Would you rather have him or a million dollars?”
“Him,” I say without hesitation, and then my eyes begin to water with understandin’. As the tears roll down my cheeks, I finally see clearly what I’ve been so blind to until now. Maybe Mason feels the same way about me.
“Congratulations,” the therapist says, interruptin’ my epiphany.
“Wh-what do you mean?” I ask, reachin’ for a tissue on the side table.
“You finally opened your eyes, at least on this particular topic,” she says with a triumphant smile. “It’ll take some time, but I know that eventually we’ll get there on the self-esteem issues as well. That’s probably enough for the day. See you Thursday, Hailey.” With that declaration, she gets up and walks out of the meetin’ room, leavin’ me stunned and even more confused than before.
…
Mace
I walk slower into the treatment center than the days before. The impending rejection already stings, but it doesn’t matter. It may suck fat, hairy balls, but I’ll keep coming back every day for as long as it takes.
“Hi, Diane,” I say in greeting to the white-haired receptionist. She takes pity on me and smiles warmly before sending me on my way.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. Right this way,” she says, coming around the counter.
Wait, what?
“You don’t have to show me out, I know the way,” I assure her. She laughs in response and takes my elbow, leading me down the hallway in the opposite direction of the exit. “You’re kidding!” I exclaim in understanding. “I’m really in?”
“You’re in,” she confirms, causing my heart to jump into overdrive. Now, I’m not sure if I’m ready to see her. What the hell do I say? Shit, it feels like I need time to prepare myself first. But then we’re standing in front of a closed door and Diane knocks before wishing me good luck over her shoulder as she takes off back toward the front.
“Come in.” I hear Hailey’s voice from the other side, and then I don’t give a fuck about the concerns I had only a minute ago because I’m finally about to see her after weeks. Two long, fucking painful weeks.
My hand shakes when I reach for the knob and turn it to push open the door. Just like always, the simple sight of her takes my breath away. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, so busy typing on a laptop that she doesn’t immediately look up to see who’s in her room. When she does, her eyes widen and she gasps like I’ve surprised the shit out of her, and not exactly in a good way. After we silently stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, I finally break the standoff.
“Hey.”
Yeah, that one word isn’t all that impressive, but it’s the most I can do at the moment. She’s too stunning, with her hair down around her bare shoulders, wearing only a light blue spaghetti strap top and matching plaid pajama shorts. Really short shorts.
Hailey lifts the computer from her lap as if to set it aside but then puts it back down.
“What…what are you doin’ here?” she asks without getting up.
�
��Um, isn’t it obvious?” I respond. “I’m here to see you.”
“H-how? I mean…how? Do they know you’re back here?” she suddenly looks nervous, glancing behind me at the closed door.
“Of course they know. I’m on your list and Diane showed me to your room.”
“No, you’re not,” she says quickly.
“I’m not on your list?” I ask in confusion. “But she just told me I could come on back. I swear she showed me to your room!”
“I guess…I guess my therapist added you.”
My heart sinks to my stomach when I realize she didn’t want to see me. All that hope that had welled up inside me is flushed right down the shitter. “Do you want me to go?” I ask, even though the words scald my throat raw on the way out. I hold my breath waiting for her response. I try to read it from her expression before it comes out of her mouth, but when she hangs her head, her hair obstructs it from view. “Hailey?” I ask. I can’t take the anticipation any longer or I’ll possibly die of oxygen deprivation.
“No,” she eventually says. Shit, now I’ve forgotten the question.
“No, you don’t want me to go, or no, you don’t want me to stay?” I ask for clarification.
“You can stay if you want,” she says softly, her sad blue eyes glancing up hesitantly to meet mine again.
I want to scream, “Of course that’s what I want! Why the fuck do you think I’ve been coming here every day for a week, you beautiful broken woman!” Instead, I just calmly swallow the outburst, and say, “I really want to stay.”
Unable to stand still, I wander around the mostly empty room and head over to look out the sliding glass door that faces the lake.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say into the silence, unburdening some of my guilt. “I should’ve told your family.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she responds. “It was my problem to deal with, not yours or theirs.”
“How are you doing?” I ask, and glance back over my shoulder at her. The way her collarbones stand out so sharply make me want to tie her up and force-feed her ice cream and brownies.
“I’m okay, I guess. This place isn’t so bad.”
“Good,” I reply. “When was the last time…”