Letting Ana Go (13 page)

Later, Angela and I helped Andy carry out the entrées for his table. Each of these women had ordered a heaping plate of fettucini with creamy Alfredo sauce. As Angela and I slid the plates onto the table in front of each guest, Andy leaned over the shoulder of the woman who had panicked when I tried to take her salad with a grater and a block of cheese.

Andy: Fresh Parmesan?

Her: Oh my, yes! (conspiratorially to her friend) Hard cheese is on my diet.

When she said this, I almost laughed out loud. Instead, I bit my tongue until it almost bled and finished picking up the empty bread baskets that littered the table. One of the other women saw my big grin and commented that I had the prettiest smile she’d ever seen.

Andy followed me back into the kitchen and we stood at the dish stand and laughed.

Andy: Her
diet
?

Me: I
know
!

Andy (wiping his eyes): Whew! That was one for the books.

Me: I don’t want to break it to her, but I’m afraid the hard cheese diet may not be working.

We carried clean dishes hot from the machine to the racks where the plates are kept, then I headed over to fill more baskets with breadsticks. After that, I wasn’t nervous anymore. I fell into a good rhythm with Andy and Trish and the time flew by. A strange feeling came over me. I’d never had so much contact with so much food in my life: huge plates of carb-laden pasta covered in cream and butter; bread dripping with fat. Instead of looking good to me, it grossed me out. I kept having to turn my head or race off to find more dishes to carry every time I
saw someone shovel a huge bite into their mouths or watched a customer dab a napkin at the butter dripping off his chin.

As I think about it now, there was something amazing and powerful about being around all that food and not being tempted to put a single thing in my mouth. Those people at Parmesan’s couldn’t control themselves. They were all stuffing their faces, their stomach rolls spilling over the arms of the chairs they’d wedged themselves into. Not me. I was in charge of my body. While everyone else was packing on the weight at the tables all around me, I was speed walking circles around them, getting even thinner than I already am.

As the lunch crowd waddled back to their offices nearby, things died down and the chef served a staff meal. I didn’t have a bite. I sat next to Trish after we finished our side work. While she and the other employees ate spaghetti and meatballs I had two glasses of ice water and the two rice cakes I’d brought from home in my purse. As I was clocking out at the computer Melanie came by with my tip out from the waitstaff and told me Andy said I was the best food runner he’d ever worked with. She said it was
highly unusual
but she was going to schedule me for lunch the next day—today—not a training shift, but an actual shift on the floor.

I just got home, and I’m tired, but I feel energized. I did a great job again today, and it sure beats sitting here all day
with Mom while Jill is in dance class. Jill texted me on the way home and said she was leaving ballet intensives and that she’d come by later. When I got home, Mom was on her way out the door to work.

Mom: Whew! Sweetheart, you smell good enough to eat.

Me: It’s so gross, Mom. The garlic gets on everything.

Mom: There’s leftover ham in the fridge and I made a bean casserole.

Me: They made us a staff meal at work.

Mom: Oh, good! I’m glad they feed you during your shift. You need to keep your energy up. I’m so proud of you for getting this job, honey!

She kissed me good-bye and wrapped her arms around me in a big hug. She took a deep breath and sighed.

Mom: Mmmmm. Breadsticks!

Me (laughing): Get out of here.

For a minute after she left, I felt sort of guilty about lying to her. Technically it was just a tiny white lie—not even a lie really. They
had
made us a meal at work. I just didn’t eat it. I stood under a hot shower for a long time and washed my hair to get the smell of breadsticks out of it. Once I couldn’t smell garlic anymore, I turned off the water and got dressed. I’m almost down to 120 pounds, and all of my shorts are loose. Jill is on her way over right now. She texted me and wants to go shop for
jeans. We’ve both gone down a couple of sizes since we started tracking our calories, and there are back-to-school sales going on now, even though it’s the middle of July. Can you believe it? Why is retail in such a hurry to get us back to school? It’s like putting up Christmas decorations in October.

Weight:
121

Vanessa and I went running this morning. Geoff has been working with his dad roofing a house early in the mornings before it gets too hot to be up there. I guess I was sort of quiet because Vanessa finally stopped in midsentence and asked if I’d even heard a word she’d said.

The truth is I really hadn’t. I was too busy thinking about what happened last night after we got back to Jill’s. Jill and I went shopping and both of us got new jeans and a couple of new tops. When we got back to Jill’s bedroom, we took everything out and cut the tags off and tried them on in different combinations. Jill calls this Fashion Research. We always have to give outfits a test run together before we wear them out publicly to make sure they pass. Jill pulled on her second new pair of jeans, and the way the fabric hugged her legs was amazing.

Me: I’ve decided all clothes must be tried on by you first.

Jill (narrowing eyes, staring into mirror): That is ridiculous.

Me: No, what’s ridiculous is how great you look in those jeans.

Jill (turning to check the back): They look okay.

Me: Okay?! They look incredible! You could stop traffic on the highway in those jeans.

Jill: They look pretty good, but
good
is often the enemy of the
best
.

Jill peeled off the indigo denim and tossed the pair onto her bed. She slipped the halter top she’d been wearing off over her head and walked over to her desk and pulled a red Magic Marker out of a pencil holder on her desk. It had the word “washable” printed across the side in big bubbly letters, and she handed it to me, then walked over to the tall mirror that leans against the wall next to her closet. It has a dark brown wood frame that goes with Susan’s tasteful decorating scheme for the entire house. She stood in front of the mirror in her underwear. The indirect light from the pin spots in her ceiling and the halogen lamp on her desk softly bounced off her skin, accenting every muscle. Years of ballet have given Jill the core strength of a boa constrictor, and the graceful contours of her muscles taut beneath her skin gave her the look of a girl in an advertisement. I just stared at her for a second while she assessed her own body in the mirror. Finally she turned to face me.

Me (holding up marker): What’s this?

Jill: There’s always room for improvement.

Me: I’m sorry. Are you talking about improving your body?

Jill: Indeed.

Me: I think the only thing on your body that needs improvement is apparently your eyesight.

I moved to where she was standing and turned her shoulders back toward the mirror.

Me: My God, Jill. Your body is perfect.

Jill: No, it’s not, but you’re going to help me get closer.

Me: How?

Jill: Circle this.

Jill held up her right arm and pointed at the underside of her biceps.

Me: Why?

Jill: There’s fat here under my arm.

Me: Where?

Jill: Can’t you see that? It’s right there. Circle it.

Something about her tone of voice stopped my questions. I took the cap off the marker and drew a red oval around the bottom of her arm as she indicated with her finger. Next, she pointed to the skin below her belly button, tracing with her index finger the path I should draw the circle. She didn’t speak for the next few minutes, just pointed and turned, and pointed
and turned. It felt like a solemn ceremony of some kind, and as I drew one last circle around her upper thigh, just below the leg opening of her underwear, she began to nod, slowly, then stepped back from the mirror and held out her arms, turning around to survey my bizarre geometry.

Something about this motion—her head nodding, the slow turning, the determined glint in her eyes—was methodical and strange. It sent a chill down my spine, and I stared into the mirror with her, trying to see what Jill must be seeing.

But I couldn’t.

It just looked like a bunch of red circles and ovals all over her arms and legs and sides and stomach. There was even one under her chin.

Jill: See? I still have a lot of work to do.

Me: I don’t understand.

Wordlessly, Jill turned and smiled at me. It was almost a look of pity. She handed me her phone and told me to snap a picture of her so she could chart her progress. She held her head back so you could see the red circle under her chin but couldn’t see her face or tell who she was. Then she took the phone and the red marker out of my hands and walked to her desk, where she opened her laptop and clicked to a website. After tapping and swiping at the screen on her phone several times, she clicked around on the laptop for a second, then
brought the computer to her bed and pulled me down next to her.

There was a message forum on the screen, and as Jill scrolled down the page, I saw images of models in ads I recognized from magazines. These pictures had been posted along with candid shots of dancers onstage and girls walking runways, and interspersed between all of these were inspirational quotations like “Craving is only a feeling” and “You’ve got to fight for every dream.” Superimposed over pictures of Kate Moss with her rib cage clearly visible, these sentences seemed to take on a whole new meaning.

Jill clicked to make a new post. She uploaded the picture I’d just taken of her. Underneath the picture she wrote: “Everything that breaks you makes you stronger.”

She clicked “submit,” and after a few seconds, the picture appeared on the forum under her username: TinyDancer. A few minutes later, comments began to appear:

SkinnyNBones: Wow! Way to go TinyDancer! You have worked so hard.

ThinkThin: #youaremyhero

Thinspiring: Your dedication is uh-MA-zing.

I watched Jill type a response back and add one more picture that was saved on her desktop. It was a picture of a girl lying on her side. She was wearing only a pair of jeans, and you
could see her ribs and every vertebra in her back very clearly through her thin skin. Just above her wrist on the inside of her arm there was a tattoo in dark, curly Latin script: “Quod me nutrit, me destruit.” Jill typed the translation of the tattoo underneath the image and clicked to post it:

All that nourishes me destroys me.

Jill closed her laptop after that and picked up the red marker.

Jill: Now let’s do you.

Me: Let’s do
what
to me?

Jill: Circle your goal spots.

Me: No thank you.

Jill (smiling): Oh, c’mon! You helped me. Let me help you.

I shook my head and started gathering my stuff.

Jill: You’re not
leaving
, are you?

Me: Yeah, I need to get home. I have to . . .

Jill: You have to what?

The way she leveled her eyes at me made me wince. She knew I was making an excuse. She knew my mom was at work all night. She knew there was nothing waiting for me at home but a big empty house and TV in the dark. Why did this feel so awkward?

Jill: Don’t be scared. Be beautiful.

She held out the marker, and we both stood there staring
at it for a moment. Then I smiled at her and picked up the shopping bags with my new jeans inside.

Me: I don’t think I’m ready to be quite that . . . beautiful.

Jill smiled as I turned toward her bedroom door, and as I stepped into the hall, I heard her say a single word:

Yet
.

I ran into Jack in the kitchen. He and Rob were just coming in from soccer practice and groaning to Susan about having to start two-a-days in a couple weeks.

Jack: Hey, beautiful.

Rob groaned. Susan smiled. I blushed, caught off guard.

Me: Hey, sweaty.

Jack: I clean up real nice.

Me (laughing): So I’ve heard.

Rob groaned again.

Susan: You’re staying for dinner?

Me: No—I have to get home.

She nodded and pecked me on the top of the head as she carried a colander of wet greens from the sink to the cutting board.

Susan: Join us tomorrow? Before you and Jack go . . .

She paused.

Jack: Mini-golf, baaa-by. Gonna tear up some putt-putt.

Rob groaned for a third time, this time loudly. I laughed and
said that was my cue to leave, but Jack beat me to the door, spun me around, and kissed me lightly on the lips.

Jack: See you tomorrow.

Me: If you’re lucky.

Jack: I always am.

Weight:
121

I couldn’t get that picture of the girl with the tattoo and her bones poking through her skin out of my head last night. When I woke up this morning it was still there so I went for a run, but it didn’t help. I just got out of the shower, and I can still see her.

I just pulled up that website on my tablet. I found Jill’s picture with red circles. She’s really thin. If she lost any more weight in all of those places she circled, she’d look like the girl with the tattoo. I have a weird feeling in my stomach about that. Somewhere there should be a balance, right? Not a scale, but a
balance
between not being overweight and not being underweight. I think that’s what Coach Perkins was trying to do with these food diaries. I weighed myself when I got out of the shower, and I’m down to 121 pounds. I’ve lost twelve pounds in two months. I’m more in shape than I’ve ever been. I don’t think I need to lose any more.

While I was running this morning, a plan started to form in my mind. I’m going to do a few things.

1. Stop limiting myself to 1,200 calories per day. Coach says I should be eating closer to 2,000, especially if I’m running every day.