Elena Vanishing (20 page)

You're losing it
, says the voice in my head.
You didn't fill in your planner last night. Where's your perfectly planned day?

So I pull out my planner and my statistics book and write down the problems that got assigned. I need to get started on them if I'm going to lead that study group tomorrow.

The numbers waver and wander around on the page. I blink at them until they make sense. Control, that's the answer. I can't let them get the better of me. I can't let them make me cry.

My phone buzzes. Then the voice mail icon lights up. Somebody left me a voice mail. I'll check it later.

The phone buzzes again, loudly, right in my ear. I jerk away and almost roll off the bed.

The bed? I've been asleep? How did that happen? When did I lie down?

What's going on?
says the voice in my head.
What did you screw up?

“Hello?” I say into the phone. My voice is rough from sleep.

“Elena!” cries a voice. It's Meghan.

“Jesus, Elena, why didn't you call me back?” she says. “I really need your help! If I don't have this paper finished by tonight's class, it'll be the end. I'll fail, and Dad won't pay for next semester, and I'll be a dropout, and I'll end up eating garbage out of cans. I'm not kidding, Elena. You've got to help me!”

“I'm studying,” I mumble into the pillow. The pillow feels so good.

“Elena!” wails Meghan. “I can't do this! I'm not like you!”

So I lever myself out of the pillow and drive to Meghan's apartment, and I sit on the floor of her living room and write her five-paragraph essay while she chatters to me and chatters to her dog and chatters to friends on her phone.

When I finish, she invites me to go grab a burger with her.

“No, I have to get home and study,” I say. “I don't eat fast food.”

“You're amazing!” Meghan gushes. “I don't know how you do it. I wish I could be like you!”

Amazing.
My brain automatically records that and links it to my number.

You're not amazing
, says the voice in my head.
She's just stupider than you are. And you don't know your number. That's yesterday's number. You're fat!

I get back into my car, but I don't drive home. Instead, I find myself cruising the fast-food places near Meghan's apartment. Visions of menu items hang in the air before my eyes. Light, fluffy, crunchy fried chicken skin, golden grease, tender, tear-apart meat. Bean-and-cheese burritos as soft and comforting as the pillow I left at home. Crunchy tacos with warm sour cream and spicy ground beef dripping into their paper wrappers.

I hear myself sigh aloud, and my mouth fills with saliva.

You're like Pavlov's dog!
growls the voice in my head.

But I can't help myself. I can see the food so clearly, I don't know how I'm not crashing the car. Crusty pizzas cradling gooey melted cheese. Crisp hot French fries dabbed in ketchup. Frosty chocolate milk shakes so thick they have to be eaten with a spoon.

“Welcome to Burger King. May I take your order?” screeches a voice in my ear.

I snap out of my daydream with a start. What am I doing in the drive-through lane? I need to get out—out—out—

“I'll take a double Whopper with cheese, and chicken tenders with ranch dipping sauce, and a large Coke, no ice—no, make that a double Whopper meal, large fries, and—wait, how many tenders? Two or three? Three. And I need—I need—a large vanilla shake.”

Is that my voice—that high, squeaky voice? The drive-through speaker screeches, and I screech back. My hands are trembling on the steering wheel. My breath is hot and quick. Like magic, a big white bag appears in my lap. The shake is cool and soothing in my hand.

I pull over into a nearby parking spot and tear into the food like an animal.

What the hell?
screams the voice in my head.
What the hell?!

But I keep right on shoving the hot, greasy food into my mouth.

Stop it! STOP IT! Stupid bitch! Stupid fat BITCH!

At first, I ignore it. Then, as the contents of the bag fill my mouth and then my belly, I begin to slow down. I hesitate, and the voice has its chance.

Look at you!
it screams.
Look at what you've done! Did you have to lose it over burgers and fries? Thousands of calories! Thousands and thousands!

That's right. I'll stop eating now. I'll throw away the rest. I back out of my parking spot and toss the bag into the drive-through trash can.

But who am I kidding? I can feel that the bag is empty.

Stupid bitch! Stupid fat bitch! You've lost it, you stupid bitch!

It's true! Oh, shit. Oh, shit! I shouldn't have gone for this type of food. I can't believe I ate this stuff. I never eat this stuff! Oh my God, oh my God, I'll be morbidly obese in no time. I'm so sorry I lost control. Please please please stop this from happening!

You will fix this problem
, says the voice in my head.
You will fix it NOW.

I pull out of the Burger King parking lot, tires squealing, heart pounding, hands shaking. Next door is a Walmart. I speed around to the back, and when I get to the dumpsters, I hit the brake so hard that my body shoots forward against my seat belt. Frantically, I begin digging through the glove box and under the seats, searching for any type of container. All I can find is a single plastic grocery bag.

I spread the bag out on my lap. Then I unfasten my seatbelt, lean forward, and purge my guts out.

Vomit splatters my face. My hands are smelly and slimy. The plastic bag on my lap is a warm, gooshy mess. But I don't stop. I can't stop. I bend over the bag and expel the acidic stew until my throat is on fire.

The fluid runs clear. Then spots of bright blood come up. Only then do I stop.

Breathing in ragged gasps, I stare at the mess in my lap. Tears are trickling down my face and burning my eyes. I wipe them on the back of my hand.

A black streak on my hand. My mascara is running. I must look like a clown. With vomit still on my lips, I roll down my window and toss the squishy bag next to the nearest dumpster.

And that's when I realize I'm not alone.

A young man in a Walmart vest is standing next to the loading dock. A cigarette dangles from his hand. He's been here the whole time. I know he has. He watched the whole thing.

Slowly, painfully, shame burns through me—shame so deep I wish I could die. As I drive away, my hands grip the sticky steering wheel like it's the only thing in the world that can hold me upright.

Back at the house, I turn on the shower and sit curled up under the steaming spray. Surely I'll cry. I want to cry. But the hot water steeps the last little bit of energy out of me, and with it goes my emotion.

What the hell is this?
says the voice in my head.
What are you, twelve? Get to work!

So I change into my workout clothes and go to the gym. I turn up the music and run on the treadmill till everything feels worse and then feels better.

You didn't get rid of it all
, says the voice in my head.
You're getting fat right this minute. You can't exercise away those kinds of calories.

I make myself do another half hour on the treadmill. What happened this afternoon wasn't a breakdown. My willpower is still there.

You're an out-of-control, binge-eating whore.

Panting, I drag myself back into the locker room to change into my street clothes. The women's locker room is empty, so I let myself step onto the scale and read the number.

Is that right? Is that really right?

I read the number again.

That's the best I've ever done!

That's not so great. You could do better
, mutters the voice in my head.

For once, I turn to look in the mirror at the white-faced girl on the other side. I don't meet her eyes, but I follow the tracheal rings of each band of cartilage down her long neck to the hollow of her throat. I notice the undulations of ribs above her bra and admire the clean, simple beauty of her collarbones.

They're like wings, those collarbones. They spring out of the flesh like a bird in flight. I run my fingers in wonder over the beautiful, fragile bones.

My body holds a secret—hidden wings.

Dad's asleep by the time I get home. Mom's sitting at the table, typing on her laptop.

“You missed supper,” she says.

“I ate fast food,” I tell her. Which is true.

I shut the door of my room (mine and Valerie's room) and turn on cartoons to drown out the voice in my head. Then I sit down to do my homework. Study group tomorrow, and I'm the one who offered to lead it. I better get started on those problems.

The numbers waver and wander on the page. My brain wasn't made for statistics.

It isn't until I put the completed assignment into my folder that I find it: the other completed assignment. I pull out the pages and compare them side by side. I can't believe I did the whole thing twice.

And not only that, but I got different answers on five of them.

Loser!
whispers the voice in my head.

My phone dings. It's a new message:

Woof! Woof! Booty call! Beer in the fridge, home alone. Come over!

I blink to clear my blurry vision and study the name below the text. Does he think I'm beautiful? Could he be on my list? Could I add him to my collection?

I close my eyes and concentrate as hard as I have all day. One by one, I tick off the requirements. Cute. Smart. Doesn't know the others. Doesn't go to any of my classes. Won't follow me around, hurt, demanding explanations, when I don't respond to his texts.

And he'll tell me I'm beautiful . . . for an hour. That's all I really want. He'll make me feel powerful because he'll be stupid enough to feel something, and he'll make me feel nothing at all.

Feeling nothing—that will be the best thing I've felt all day.

I close the textbook on my mismatched statistics questions, and I hunt up an outfit to make him drool. The room whirls while I
change. The cartoons skip and snicker on the TV screen beside me, and the ghosts of a young, bossy Valerie, a younger me, and two slightly overweight dogs sit together to watch them.

A lump catches my breath. All gone . . . All gone but me.

Where's my purse? I need this now. I'm feeling too much.

I desperately need not to feel.

As I grab my purse and car keys, my bleary eyes register something white and fluttering. I put a hand out to steady it, or to steady me.

That's right, it's my new sketch. It's the girl lost in the forest.

A forest that isn't even there.

How did this happen?

How did this happen, and what's going to happen to me?

I sit in the waiting room with Meghan, too shocked and scared to speak. Meghan doesn't speak, either. She holds my hand. The piped-in music is “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree.” Why does Christmas bring out the worst in us?

I turn over details in my mind, trying to piece together what happened. Trying to figure out What Went Wrong.

I met Kevin during my freshman year of college. But he wasn't even a guy I could add to my collection. He wasn't cute or smart. I was so far above him, I was out of his league.

Nobody's out of your league
, says the voice in my head.

Meghan pushes around the magazines on the waiting room table, but she doesn't pick any of them up. An article title catches my eye: “When Should I Let My Baby Cry It Out?”

It started four months ago. Kevin was on the other side of the country, and all he wanted was to call me sometimes. He was lonely. I felt sorry for him. I was doing him a favor. We both knew I was out of his league.

There isn't a league for sluts
, says the voice in my head.

A tired-looking woman sits across from us in the waiting room. Her pregnant belly is huge.

I knew what it felt like to be homesick, so I told Kevin he could call me if he wanted to. I didn't even have to talk. Kevin did all the talking. All I had to do was hold the phone.

“You're beautiful. You look like a supermodel,” he would say.

“You're drunk,” I would say. Because he was.

It didn't occur to me that Kevin would come home every now and then—that he would call but this time he wouldn't be that far away. It didn't occur to me that I'd still feel sorry for him and that I'd want to hear him say in person how beautiful I was. I'm not beautiful. I know that. Even without looking in a mirror, I know it. But I know that I'm beautiful to a loser like Kevin. In
his
world—among the hard-drinking, bar-faced women
he
knows—I actually am something special.

You're not special
, says the voice in my head.
You just haven't fallen that far—yet.

“Elena Dunkle!” calls the nurse from the doorway, and we walk in silence down the hall.

She hates you
, says the voice in my head.
She'll talk about you behind your back.

That's okay. I deserve it.

Now I'm flat on my back on the rustling paper of the examining table, thinking about what a mess I've made of my life. The doctor squeezes ice-cold ultrasound jelly onto my concave abdomen. He presses a probe against me and slides it around. After a few seconds, I hear
whump-whump-whump-whump
, very fast and light, like the wings of a hummingbird slowed down.

The doctor points to a hazy little blob of light twitching around the fuzzy monitor screen.

“There it is,” he says. “That's your baby.”

Such a powerful wave of love pours through me—such an unaccountable, unexpected tsunami of love—that I know right then,
well, of course! This is God. This love that I'm feeling is God. All my doubts and fears are swept away in an instant.