Elena Vanishing (17 page)

Dr. Leben paused to give me a glance over her glasses. She said, “For many people, eating is a joyful experience.”

That's when I knew my instinct about the Earth Mother thing was correct.

After the questionnaire, Dr. Leben said, “Well. It's clear that you have anorexia nervosa.”

The speed with which she summed this up surprised me. I was
expecting things to be like Drew Center: another round of “Well, we can't be sure. . . . We'll have to see.”

“My parents didn't make me sick,” I told her. “If I have anorexia, it's not their fault.” But in my mind, I could hear my childish voice begging not to go back to boarding school.

“I believe you,” Dr. Leben said—again, to my surprise. “We used to think anorexia came from stresses experienced in the family, but now we know that that kind of anorexia shows up early in life. You say yours showed up during your teenage years at the boarding school, so your family life didn't cause it.”

But who sent you to that boarding school?
said the voice in my head.

I told Dr. Leben everything was fine. I told her I knew how to manage my life.

“I'm sure you do,” she said.

I told her about my high grades, my many achievements, and the fact that I was one of a handpicked group of students chosen to be a dorm RA for the summer. “I currently work three jobs,” I said.

“I'm sure you do.”

“Sometimes I do get a little stressed out,” I admitted. In fact, I had recently asked our family doctor for medication to help with my panic attacks, but I didn't see any reason to mention this. “I would be willing to see a therapist,” I added, “and maybe come to group sessions once in a while.”

“That's not going to help,” Dr. Leben said. “I'll need to refer you to a residential treatment center. As severe as your case is, you need twenty-four-hour care for several weeks at least. We're not an inpatient facility.”

You'll spend six months in a hospital
, said the voice in my head,
with a tube up your nose to feed you!

I arranged an amused expression on my face and adjusted my voice before I spoke. “I really don't have that kind of time,” I said sweetly.

“I know you don't,” said Dr. Leben. “Ambition and perfectionism go hand in hand with the anorexic mindset. But you need to put your health first. Anorexia won't go away by itself. Starvation studies have shown that the effects of anorexia lead to its self-perpetuation, and those effects continue for months after you've reached your ideal weight. Until you regain the weight, therapy won't help.”

Regain the WEIGHT?
said the voice in my head.
What does she mean, regain the WEIGHT?

And that was where our meeting ended.

I didn't go to therapy, and I didn't drop everything to run off and gain a bunch of weight. But I realized that Dr. Leben and I agreed about one thing: I do share my life with anorexia. So I went out and researched tattoo artists until I found one who produced real art. I saved my money, and I had him create my tattoo.

That beautiful, hostile face isn't where I can see her. I don't need to see her. I know every single minute of every single day that she's there. Anorexia is a part of who I am. She's how I deal with the world around me.

And if you don't get to work, you're going to get fired!

Once I'm in my uniform, I head to the front desk, where the staff who will be running the place for the night are gathering to start our shift. Ray has brought in a meal from the nearby burger place, and Julian is giving him a hard time about it.

“I can't believe you're going to eat that shit,” Julian says. “It's got like a thousand calories. I thought you were serious about bulking up. You should be drinking that energy mix I sold you.”

“It's not that bad for me,” says Ray. “Anyway, I like burgers.”

“Elena, you tell him,” Julian says. “He'll listen to a beautiful girl. Tell him it's got like a thousand calories and it's going to make his face break out.”

Beautiful
, I think automatically, and I pair that with my number. Then, against my will, I glance in the direction of Ray's meal.

Double-patty burger: three hundred and fifty-four calories
, says the voice in my head.
Add the bacon and cheese for two hundred more. Large fries: six hundred and forty calories. Large soft drink: four hundred.

It all adds up to sixteen hundred calories. But I don't say that, of course. I never count calories out loud. It's one of my rules.

“I'm staying out of it,” I tell them with a smile. “You know I don't do math. All you guys ever do is talk about food.”

Julian and I work the front desk until two in the morning. Then I steam clean the palatial locker room. After that, we fold towels until it's time to punch out. It's boring work, but at least it's tidy.

At five in the morning, I drive home. Traffic is no longer bumper to bumper.

The two hours' nap I grab before the beginning of RA orientation is just long enough to make me hate waking up, but I'm excited about the day's training sessions. I loved working as an RA over the summer, and I can't wait to help my new group of freshmen hit their stride and find their potential.

Orientation is mandatory, so all of the RAs are there, not just us new ones who worked during the summer. Our managers are going to go over procedures for handling complaints, for setting up dorm mixers and functions, and for calling the police. I've already had to call the police because of an incident when I was the RA on call, and I handled it so well that my manager singled me out for special praise.
It's one of the reasons I was the managers' first choice when the time came to choose RAs for the fall.

First, we go around the room and introduce ourselves.

“I'm Elena Dunkle,” I tell the attentive faces, “and I'm a sophomore. This year, I'll be finishing up my prerequisites for nursing school. I hope to be an RN in the Air Force.”

Liar!
says the voice in my head.
You know that's not going to happen.

I haven't been to see the Air Force recruiter in months—not since he told me my weight was too low.

“Gain a few pounds,” he said carelessly. “Come see me in six weeks.”

“No problem,” I told him with a smile.

But I knew as I walked out the door that I wouldn't be coming back.

At lunchtime, two of the veteran RAs walk over to say hi. They're going to be responsible for the floors next to mine.

“Girl, you have
such
a figure,” one of them says. “How do you do it? No matter what I try, I can't get rid of this big old butt.”

God, I love to hear that! It never gets old.

Right before the last session of the day, the managers introduce their new boss. I can tell they're unsure about her. She's never worked on a college campus, she's never held a position dealing with students, and she seems to be some old friend of the Head of Housing. According to the dorm managers, she was having a hard time, and the Head of Housing decided to give her this job.

The new boss is a plain, doughy woman with ragged bangs, a suit that's way too tight, and a sour expression on her face. Either she hates humanity, or she wants us all to know that she won't put up
with any shit. That's not a very good attitude to bring onto a college campus. I'm glad she's not
my
boss.

The last session begins. Two psychologists, a man and a woman, have come over from the Counseling Center to guide us through sensitivity training.

“In spite of the strides we've made in the last ten years,” the woman tells us, “prejudice against gay and lesbian students is still common. I'd like you to share your own experiences. Has anyone here had a hostile experience due to your sexual orientation?”

No one speaks up, of course. The two gay RAs I know wisely keep silent.

The psychologists go on to discuss the Americans with Disabilities Act and how we should respond to people with special needs. “We all know about the need to provide ramps for wheelchair students,” the man says, “but many disabilities are invisible. We all need to be aware that disabled students won't necessarily show up with a wheelchair or a service dog.”

“That's right. Think about learning disabilities,” the woman chimes in. “Think about psychiatric conditions. Students who make insensitive remarks or jokes may be offending someone nearby who suffers from one of these invisible disabilities.”

“What about you RAs?” the man says. “What experiences have you had with a hidden disability? Anyone here with a learning disability? With a psychiatric condition?”

One of the RAs has confessed to me in strictest confidence that he suffers from schizophrenia. I glance his way, but he has no intention of sharing that with his employers and a roomful of strangers.

“Anybody?” the woman prompts. “Can anybody share their experience? Come on—I know this group is more diverse than you're letting on. We can all benefit from your participation.”

Nobody.

Still nobody.

Oh, what the hell.

When it comes to speaking up, I'm not shy. Maybe because I had to learn how to argue in a foreign language, I don't have any problem speaking my mind. Maybe because the voice in my head critiques me so sharply, I don't worry about what regular people will think. There's no room in life for that kind of weakness: no pity and no fear. I hold up my hand.

“I have an eating disorder,” I tell the attentive faces. “And when I was in the treatment center, I learned that eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes. Sure, there are the skinny chicks like me, but ED patients can be men or even children, and bulimics are often normal weight or overweight rather than thin. So ED patients may be among your students, and they may not look the way you think. That's important to know because when those patients get into a new environment, they can suffer from isolation and depression.”

“That's so true,” agrees the woman, beaming.

“Thanks for sharing,” says the man.

The sensitivity session comes to an end.

That's it for the first day of RA orientation. I pick up my notebook and head to the door.

Some of the RAs are going out to dinner, but I turn them down so I can work on my apartment. In two days, the freshman class will show up. My room needs to be ready for them.

In the boarding school, my room was a haven for homesick girls. I represented them in meetings with the housemothers and the headmistress, and I counseled them on their problems. I even tucked the little girls in at night. It was one of my favorite things about the school.

Now, as I unpack, I daydream about how pleasant it will be to do that again—to champion timid students and watch them gain confidence. Meanwhile, I sort through boxes to find my favorite knickknacks, the ones that have traveled with me from Germany. My Venetian masks can go here on the living room wall. Not in the bedroom—at night, they look too creepy.

My cell phone rings. It's Valerie. Our relationship will never be what it was before, but we've fallen into the habit of talking at least once a day. She and Clint recently got engaged, and I'm going to be her maid of honor—that is, if she stops procrastinating and gets around to planning. So far, all we've worked out is that she wants to be married in black, barefoot, on the beach.

“What up, ho,” I say. “I looked at those bridesmaid dresses you liked on the Internet.”

“I'm kinda pregnant,” she says.

I feel the blood drain out of my face and then come back in a rush.

Your fault that she's getting to you!
says the voice in my head.
You were stupid to let her back into your life.

“It's not that big a deal,” Valerie continues. “It's kinda good in some ways. Now I don't have to worry about a big wedding.”

“But you haven't finished college! Clint hasn't gotten into the Air Force yet. You can't raise a kid on minimum wage!”

“Hey, I don't make minimum wage!” she says. “And I don't know what you're so upset about. Clint's almost done with the courses they told him to take. He'll get in. We'll handle it.”

But I feel myself shaking my head. This is it. This is absolutely it. My bright sister, who charmed her teachers, who mastered German quicker than I did—who grew up, for God's sake, living in Europe, visiting St. Peter's and the Tower of London—has trapped herself in rural Southern poverty.

She'll be a redneck
, says the voice in my head.
She'll be a joke! Your sister is going to end up as a mobile-home redneck welfare mom.

I can see it all: Valerie in her thirties, in a folding chair in front of a trailer, popping open a can of beer as she takes a drag on her cigarette. I can see her son or daughter dropping out of high school to stock shelves at Walmart.

My own niece or nephew!

This is what happens when you let go of perfection
, says the voice in my head.
You shouldn't have let her back into your life.

I get off the phone and try to continue straightening my apartment, but the work doesn't interest me anymore. My head hurts. A stack of books falls over on the counter, and Dylan swirls around his bowl with extra force.

Fish can't pick up on a bad mood, can they?

The next time my cell phone rings, it's my RA manager. “Elena,” he says, “could you meet us at the Counseling Center at seven tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” I say. “Is this about Dean? Is he okay?” Dean is an RA who's been having suicidal thoughts.

“Yeah, that's it,” says my manager. “You guessed it. It's about Dean. It'll really help us if you can be there.”

“Anything I can do to help, you know that. I'll see you there at seven.”

The next morning, Day Two of orientation. I didn't get much sleep last night, so I put on my powder and eye shadow with extra care. Valerie's life may be a mess, but I'm different. I'm a successful student and employee, always ready to do that extra bit that distinguishes great from good. Like now—the other RAs are still asleep, but I come rattling down the concrete steps of my dorm building to meet my manager at the Counseling Center.