Letting Ana Go (17 page)

She made me promise.

She made me swear.

I’ve still got four pounds to lose before two weeks from Saturday. I don’t care what I said to Vanessa. I’m going to make it happen.

Weight:
114

Today is Mom’s first day shift. She looked a little frazzled and I think it’s going to take her some time to get on a normal sleep schedule. She just buzzed around the kitchen dropping things, and it took her three tries to get to the car after breakfast. She kept having to come in and get stuff: keys, sunglasses, wallet.

Something I realized as I sat there eating my required breakfast in front of her: she wasn’t really watching me. I took a bite and then swallowed it, then took another bite and spit it out in my napkin when she wasn’t looking. She didn’t even notice. After that, I realized I could throw most of my oatmeal away in my paper napkin.

When the bowl was empty, I took it to the sink and rinsed it out. She kissed me on the cheek and scooted out to the garage for the third time. I made another mug of ballerina tea to keep the bites I did swallow moving on through me.

I have no idea what to expect tonight.

Dinner.

That’s what I had to expect.

And of course, she made a big deal of it. She insisted we go out to get burgers at Buster’s. I got a protein-style, and I didn’t get any fries or onion rings.

Mom chirped on and on about how great it was going to be to finally work days like a normal person and not feel like a vampire. She’s
very excited
about getting to spend more time with me, and talked about all the special dinners we could have together. She
totally understands
that I want to eat healthily so she talked and talked and talked about the food she was going to make me.

I’d never been so happy to see my phone light up when Dad called in the middle of her lemon-pepper chicken recipe. I pointed at my phone and said, “Dad,” which stopped her midsentence, then I took a huge bite of hamburger and held it in my mouth as I slipped out of the booth and answered the
phone with the wad of ground beef on one side of my mouth.

Dad: Hey, honey! Glad I got you on the phone.

Me: Hi.

Dad: Are you . . . eating? Did I call at a bad time?

Me: Hang on.

I pushed through the bathroom door and spit the huge bite of burger into the trash can. It was quieter in here.

Me: Hi. Sorry. Mom and I are at Buster’s.

Dad: Oh! Great. Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and stay the weekend at my place. Or maybe even Friday night? We could go to your meet together on Saturday? I finally got the guest room all set up and . . .

His voice trailed off. I just stood there waiting. It felt like I was supposed to say something now, and I didn’t know what. I hated these silences between us now. Like it was somehow my job to be perky and cheerful and make everyone feel better about the crap they were putting me through.

Dad: You there?

Me: Yeah. Um . . . maybe . . . some other weekend, Dad. It’s just . . . this weekend is really busy. I know you work late on Friday, and the meet is early on Saturday, and I have a date that night.

Dad: A date, huh?

Me: Yeah. Dad, I have to go.

Dad: Okay, sweetheart. Well, maybe the next weekend?

Me: Sure. Maybe, I’ll look at my calendar.

He told me he loved me and then he hung up. All of a sudden, my stomach cramped up. I raced into a stall and threw up the bites of the burger I’d eaten.

Turns out there’s a silver lining to phone calls from Dad after all.

Weight:
113

I just got home from the hospital.

I sat and stared at that first sentence for a little while after I wrote it. I still can’t believe I collapsed during the meet yesterday.

I didn’t feel bad yesterday morning. The gun went off, and we started running. I pulled away from the pack with Vanessa right behind me, and two girls from the Riverside team in front of me. I don’t like to try to run in the lead because it makes me nervous. I’m always looking over my shoulder for someone to be nipping at my heels. I like to hang back until I can tell the leaders are getting winded, then I try to make a move and come from behind in the last mile. The trick is not getting too far behind.

After two miles through the wash along the back edge of the school, we doubled back, following the markers along a golf course, and the mountains came into full view. They were majestic in shades of purple and blue, summits of torn construction paper stretched across the sky. Their fuzzy, jagged edges reached up toward the bright rays of the sun, which warmed my face. Everything else seemed to fall away. I stretched out my stride and made my move on the Riverside girls, sailing past them in a burst of speed. Now it was only me, out in front with a mile to go, then a half mile, then a quarter mile. I rounded the back of the fine arts building into the roped-off course that led toward the track. I heard the cheers of the small crowd of parents and friends watching from the bleachers near the finish line. I felt a rush through my head like a buzzing, and a smile formed on my lips. I sped up as I raced across the grass toward the edge of the track. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears as the white-hot light of the sun filled my eyes and then . . .

I heard a beep.

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

. . . and a voice:

Do you know where you are?

Can you tell me your name?

Do you know what day it is?

Slowly, the bright, white light of the sun narrowed into a single beam, which came from the end of a tiny penlight held by a woman with dark skin in a white jacket. She was asking me the questions.

Do you know where you are?

Do you know what happened?

Can you hear me?

I answered her questions:

No
.

No
.

Yes
.

I looked around and slowly other faces came into focus: Mom, her mascara running down her cheeks; Dad, his eyes red and frightened; Coach Perkins, her lips set in a thin, straight line.

The woman in the white jacket was Dr. Nash, a friend of Mom’s from the hospital, which is where I was.

Mom said I’d collapsed during the race.

Dr. Nash said I was dehydrated and beginning to show signs of malnourishment.

Coach Perkins said she’d gone over my CalorTrack printouts
and she had some questions about what I’d been eating.

Dad couldn’t say anything. He just stared at me, lying there in the bed with a tube pumping fluids into my arm.

Mom said I had to start eating more.

Dr. Nash said I had to stay overnight for observation.

Coach said I was benched until I gained some weight.

Dad ran his hand over his face, kissed my forehead, and walked into the hallway, and I fell back asleep for what felt like a very long time.

When I opened my eyes this morning at 6:12 a.m., Mom was sleeping in the chair next to my bed. I guess she’d been there all night long. She had a blanket wrapped around her, and it was just the two of us, the beep of my heart monitor, and the gentle sound of her breathing, in and out, peaceful and slow.

My head felt clear, and I wasn’t tired. There was a vase with bright yellow gerbera daisies and purple statice sitting on the little table next to the bed. I lay there trying to remember if they’d been there yesterday. I couldn’t. I tried to remember anything at all between racing for the finish line and winding up in a hospital bed, but I couldn’t. I watched Mom sleep in the chair, and I wondered where Dad had gone when he left.

Mom woke up when a couple of nurses who she works with in the ER came to check on us. When they went back downstairs, Mom told me Jack had come by yesterday evening,
but I was sound asleep. He wouldn’t let her wake me; he just left the flowers. When I checked my phone there was a single text from him:

Hope you’re feeling better. I love you.

After I read that, I did feel better, even when Mom and Dr. Nash insisted I eat two bowls of Jell-O and a plate of scrambled eggs with cheese in front of them. As I ate, they asked me questions:

Had I been limiting my calories instead of keeping the goal set by Coach?

Why did I feel I needed to lose weight?

Did I know how dangerous it was for my heart and kidneys to be running long distances without proper nutrition?

Did I understand the long-term effects of not eating enough calories?

I answered all the questions correctly, but all I could hear in my head as I swallowed the cool, sweet gelatin squares was Susan’s voice in my head:

Carbs are killing us
.

Before she left the room, Dr. Nash looked right into my eyes and put a hand on my shoulder.

Dr. Nash: You are dangerously thin. You’re a pretty girl, but you are more than ten pounds underweight. A young woman who is five seven should weigh well over 120 pounds; with your athletic
frame, closer to 130. When was the last time you had your period?

I didn’t say anything.

Mom: Sweetheart?

Dr. Nash: Did you have it this month?

I couldn’t look at her. I shook my head.

Dr. Nash: Last month.

Me: No.

She turned to my mom.

Dr. Nash: We have worked together for how many years now?

Mom: Almost ten . . .

Dr. Nash: Would I lie to you?

Mom: No.

Dr. Nash: I need both of y’all to hear this. If you don’t start eating more calories every day, you will be back. And if you come back, I’m going to send you to the thirteenth floor.

Mom has talked about the thirteenth floor for years. It’s the psych ward, the floor in the hospital with a series of locked doors between the patients and the elevators.

Mom was quiet on the way home. When we walked into the kitchen, she gave me a hug and told me two things: I love you. Dinner is at seven.

I came upstairs and took a long shower, and when I came out of the bathroom just now, I saw the red dress hanging on the closet door. I sat and stared at it for the longest time. The
hospital room seems very far away somehow—like a dream.

Was I really just there?

Did I really collapse?

Was it really because I’ve been dieting?

All I want is to fit in this dress. I started to get dressed, and then instead of pulling on my jeans, I walked over and took the dress off the hanger. I was able to zip it all the way up, and it’s only a tiny bit snug. Three more pounds is all it would take.

I felt my heart begin to race, and for the first time in this whole ordeal, a tear slid down my cheek. I thought about Jack’s face when I walked down the stairs in this dress. I’m three pounds away from that moment.

I don’t want to end up back in the hospital. I don’t want to be locked up on the psych floor. Why is it so wrong for me to want my body to be perfect?

I’ve come so far. I can’t stop now, can I?

Mom just called up the stairs. Dinner is ready.

Weight:
114

I thought it would be all over school today, but if anyone had heard about me passing out during the race on Saturday, no one seemed that interested.

Except for Vanessa.

She met me in the parking lot this morning. As I pulled in, she walked toward my car, and I let out a long, slow sigh. I didn’t think I could handle an “I told you so” this early in the day, but it looked like I wouldn’t have a choice. I grabbed my bag, climbed out of the SUV, and braced myself for her scolding.

Instead, she gave me a hug.

Vanessa: I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so scared.

It was Vanessa who got to me first. Vanessa who stopped running to roll me over and make sure I was still breathing. Now she was crying and hugging me, and instead of feeling her disapproval, all I felt was her love. We stood and cried in the parking lot.

Vanessa: I don’t want to lose you.

Me: You won’t.

Vanessa: I won’t lie for you anymore. If your food diary isn’t correct, I’m going to tell Coach. I’m going to speak up because I won’t stand by while you starve yourself to death.

I followed her to the bathroom, where we fixed our makeup. I looked at her in the mirror and whispered, “Thank you.”

Vanessa: For what?

Me: For being my friend.

She smiled, then we grabbed our stuff and hurried to first period. Jill was quiet all morning between classes, and went off
campus with Rob for lunch. I texted her and she texted me back to say she’d call me tonight after her ballet class.

I wonder if she’s worried. I can’t help thinking that maybe she’s afraid I’ll tell people how much she’s been restricting her calories. I would never do that to her. Her body is her business. Maybe she’s not worried about me telling anyone else. Maybe she’s worried I won’t be as fun to hang out with? Or that I’ll get preachy like Vanessa? I know I just need to talk to her so that she’ll know I’m still the same old me, even if I have to eat more.

I checked in with Coach at practice and told her what I’d had for lunch: turkey wrap, apple, half a bag of fruit snacks. She hugged me too, and all of a sudden when she did, I just wanted to get out of there. I knew she wasn’t going to let me run, but I resent having to tell her what I ate for lunch. The thought went through my head that I wished everyone would stop hugging me. Jill didn’t hug me today. She kept her distance. She probably knew I needed some space.

Jill still gets me better than anybody else.

Except maybe Jack.

We talked on the phone last night after dinner, and I told him I wasn’t allowed to practice until I’d fully recovered. I did not go into what “fully recovered” entailed. I didn’t want him to think his girlfriend was going to become a blimp. He came by after his soccer practice just now. His hair was all sweaty and he
was wearing soccer sandals and those big socks that normally go over your shin guards.

There is something undeniably sexy about a boy in soccer socks. We made out for a while on the couch, and then he just held me and we watched TV. Or I should say, the TV was on.