She leaned forward a little, gripping a notepad on her lap. “Since this is our first session, I thought maybe we could start off with you telling me a little bit about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, anything that might help me understand what brought you to Wallingfield, and how I might help you while you are here.”
“You mean like my life story?”
“If you think that would help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how about we start with your relationship with your parents. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about them, and you.”
“Well, my mom likes it when I’m thin. Dad is clueless. We have no pets, and I’m an only child. Mom wasn’t able to have any more kids after me. I don’t know why. Something about my birth, I think. And I’m here, obviously, so there’s that. Although, for the record, I do think that I’d be fine at home.” I paused.
“Anything else?”
“Nope. That’s about it.” I sat back. Her turn.
“Okay. Can you say a little more about your mom? You said she likes you thin. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
She pushed harder. “Okay. Why?”
Why? Because she said so. But I couldn’t tell Mary that. Not yet. Not until I knew how she’d take it. My mom wasn’t a bad person. She just had expectations. Or, rather, hopes. That’s it. She had hopes for me.
Hopes for my appearance, anyway. I realized just how high those hopes were last month, when Mom texted me and said she was leaving work early to pick me up from school to “hang with you and chill.” Her words, not mine. Since I wasn’t running cross-country anymore and my brain moved at the speed of sludge those days, I couldn’t think of an excuse in time to get out of it.
I figured we’d have a quick coffee somewhere so Mom could check mother-daughter time off her weekly to-do list.
Instead, she surprised me. “We’re going to Macy’s!” she proclaimed. “I’m in the mood for some retail therapy.”
“No, Mom, I don’t feel like it. Can we just get a latte or something?” I hated Macy’s. The clothes never looked good on me. Few if any of the outfits Mom had made me try on over the years “suited my figure,” as Mom liked to say. Even so, she was relentless. She’d toss shirts and skirts and jeans and dresses over the top of the dressing room door, only to frown and look disappointed when I put them on. I’d taken to using Mom’s credit card and shopping online, so I could have the clothes delivered to me and try them on alone, in my room.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I’d never admit it, but a part of me was curious. I’d lost a lot of weight. Like, thirty pounds. Maybe things would be different now. “Fine. Let’s go to Macy’s.”
“Yes!” Mom threw the car into drive and pulled out onto the street. “So, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good,” she said.
“How’s work going?” I asked, to be polite.
“Great,” she said. “Things are going really well.”
After that we rode in silence. I pulled out my phone and texted Katrina.
Me: Shopping with Mom. Pray for me.
The typing indicator raced back and forth as she responded.
Katrina: Yikes! Good luck!!!! Talk later?
Me: If I make it back alive.
I put my phone in the front pocket of my backpack and squeezed the bag to my chest.
Macy’s loomed, big and boxy. Mom parked right in front. “Isn’t this fun?” she said, gathering up her Coach purse, the one she’d bought used on eBay. “You and me—shopping, hanging out. This is great!” We entered the store through the makeup department.
You’ve never thought it was great before, I thought, dragging my feet. Our shopping trips usually led to horrible fights where I begged her to leave me alone and she told me that if I let her dress me, I’d look great. You just have to purchase the right clothes for your figure, she’d say. You don’t have the right body for the juniors’ department. But the juniors’ department was where all my friends shopped, and I wanted to shop there, too. And sometimes the things she hated on me, I didn’t think looked that bad. Until she pointed out the flaws—my hips, my thighs, my chubby knees.
But today I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want a fight. I just wanted to get this trip over with.
In front of Clinique, Mom said, “I love Macy’s!” and hugged me for no reason. Our collarbones clanked, bone on bone.
She took a deep, appreciative inhale. “Doesn’t it smell good in here?”
I shrugged. I was starting to sweat. I think I had PTSD—post-traumatic shopping disorder. Over the last couple of years, stints in Macy’s dressing rooms had taught me that, according to Mom, skinny jeans, low-rise jeans, high-rise jeans, boyfriend jeans, pencil skirts, long skirts, baggy sweaters, tight sweaters, yoga pants—basically anything made of semi-fashionable fabric—didn’t “suit” me.
But I hadn’t been this thin since, well, forever. I fingered my hip bones, which stuck out like handles. I liked how the skin was still bruised from lying stomach-down on our deck all summer.
Even so, I tiptoed through the juniors’ department’s racks of clothes, avoiding contact like they’d sting me if I touched them.
“Try these.” Mom held up a pair of forest-green skinny jeans.
I loved them for anyone except me. My thighs would never fit in those. You needed a thigh gap for those. I didn’t have a thigh gap. The tops of my thighs refused to separate. They were like two sausages stuffed tight in a package. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on, Elizabeth. Try them on. I bet you’ll look great.” Mom grabbed my arm and looked straight at me. “You know you don’t look the same anymore. I bet you’ll be surprised.”
“Fine.” I grabbed them and without a word marched into the dressing room.
I’d always been a size 29. She’d picked a size 28. Too small for sure. But I was swimming in them. Mom went back out for a size 27, and then a 26. Then, a 25. She was giddy. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she said. “Size twenty-five! That’s like a size zero!”
Size 25. Even though I knew my body had tons of problems, I couldn’t help but be proud. Size 25. Size 0. I’d never been a size 0. A few more pounds and who knew? Maybe I could have shopped in the kids’ department.
Only later that day, alone in my room, did I wonder if Mom was at all worried about my weight loss. Did I want her to be? Losing 30 pounds in four months wasn’t good for me, was it?
Yes, I scolded myself. It was. It was very good for me.
“Elizabeth?” Mary waved her hand gently in front of my face. “May I ask what you were just thinking about?”
I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.” I’d brought those jeans with me, but with the way the nurses were making me eat, I wondered how long they’d fit.
I wondered what Mom would say when they didn’t.
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