Fat: 10
That was a total of forty. Effing forty. And no veggies. Yes, that’s right. Zero vegetables besides lettuce for salad. “They take up too much space in your stomach,” Sally said. “During refeeding we focus on denser foods. We’ll introduce veggies at a later date, I promise.”
Here’s how it all broke down on paper: Breakfast: 1 Protein, 3 Starches, 2 Fruits, 1 Dairy, 2 Fats A.M. Snack: 2 Starches, 2 Fruits, 1 Fat Lunch: 2 Proteins, 2 Starches, 2 Fruits, 1 Dairy, 2 Fats P.M. Snack: 1 Starch, 2 Fruits, 1 Fat Dinner: 3 Proteins, 1 Starch, 2 Fruits, 1 Dairy, 3 Fats Evening Snack: 1 Starch, 1 Fruit, 1 Fat Torture. Pure torture. But Sally and I did it, and for the first time since arriving, even though I was totally freaking out about what would be on my plate, I felt a little thankful that I could at least prepare for it in advance. Like, I knew that on Saturday night I would have one chicken thigh with skin, one small baked potato with 2 tablespoons of sour cream, one slice of wheat toast with 1 teaspoon of butter and 1 teaspoon of jelly, 1? cups of strawberries, half a banana, and one carton of low-fat milk.
That was a lot of food.
It was too much.
Too much.
Too. Much.
“So!” Sally beamed. “You did great!”
I nodded.
“Now, provided your bone density test comes back fine and we don’t need to tweak anything, we won’t meet again until a week from now.”
“Bone density?”
“Yes, you’re scheduled for Monday.”
Bone density. To see if I’d basically starved my bones and made them weak like an old lady’s. Mary had mentioned that on my first day. I’d forgotten.
“Oh,” I said.
Sally saw the fear on my face. “Hon, I’m sure it will be fine. The test itself is a piece of cake. Really.” She took my face in her hands. “Just keep telling yourself, ‘Food is medicine. I have a disease and food is what will cure it.’ Okay?” She patted my shoulder. “Everything is going to be fine.”
I really hoped so.
Later that night, I wrapped my fingers around my wrist. It felt foreign, like a tree branch. I twisted as hard as I could. Pain shot up my forearm, but the bone held strong. I was okay, right?
I focused on my heartbeat. It careened along, too fast, then, a moment later, skipped a beat. Mitral valve prolapse, just like Lexi. It had to be. It was hard to breathe. My heart blipped again and sped up. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. Was I dying?
Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. You are getting better every day. You KNOW this.
But I didn’t know it, did I? Not really.
Allie came up behind me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yes, I wanted to tell her, I had.
Mine.
16
I woke up on Saturday to a hard rain, the kind that lashes at the windows and makes you want to burrow deeper into your blankets. Under there, I could almost pretend I was somewhere else. A cabin in the woods maybe, with furniture made of logs, a crackling fire, and a cute boy.
Instead, I trudged to the cold, dim breakfast room. When I saw my tray, my heart sank. Clearly, I was horrible at meal planning. Instead of yogurt and eggs I’d tried to mix it up with French toast, a cup of strawberries, a carton of milk, and a packet of instant decaf. I’d made a crucial miscalculation, though. By not including syrup on my menu, I’d assumed I wouldn’t get any. But Sally thought otherwise. So there it was, at least a quarter cup of brown sludge so sugary it hurt my teeth. Straight calories. No nutritional value at all. And I had to eat all of it. All. Of. It. It took Kay threatening an Ensure for me to choke it all down.
But I finished.
After brushing my teeth three times, I headed to the nurses’ station, but my mind remained on the syrup and where on my body it would end up—my arms or thighs or stomach or back. The possibilities were endless.
The dark rain matched my mood. Grim and gray. I guess if you want to get all deep, I was mourning the body I was losing each day a little, too. When I saw Ray, I barely remembered what I’d come for. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just a bad breakfast. It’s so hard sometimes.”
Ray leaned forward. “Well, Elizabeth, you’ve been doing so well. You should be proud of yourself.”
I bet he said that to all the girls. “Thanks, Ray. Do you guys have any extra journals, by chance?” The nurses kept stuff that girls might need—extra toothpaste, toothbrushes, shampoo—at their station. I’d brought my favorite journal from home, a purple Moleskine, but had run out of space. Doodling, mainly, and lists. Lists like books I wanted to reread now that I was sixteen (Harry Potter—all seven, The Golden Compass, and The Giver), cities I wanted to visit (Paris, Bangkok, Rome, San Francisco, New York), and college majors I thought were cool (psychology, nutrition, literature, philosophy). But most of the lists were of foods I’d eat if I weren’t anorexic. Exhibit A of insanity: Kinds of Dunkin’ Donuts: French Cruller, Boston Kreme, Jelly Sticks, Chocolate Munchkins, Maple Frosted, Chocolate Frosted with Sprinkles, Glazed Munchkins, Old Fashioned, Powdered, Coconut. Or Exhibit B, written in first-period AP Chem in hour twelve of a twenty-four-hour fast: Breakfast: French toast, Belgian waffles, blueberry pancakes, coffee crumb cake, bacon, doughnuts, lemon ricotta pancakes, chocolate chip waffles, eggs Benedict, melted butter, whipped cream, strawberries.
Anyone reading it would have thought I was nuts, and I wouldn’t exactly have disagreed. When I got home, I’d burn the stupid thing in our living room fireplace. But until then, I’d settle for stuffing it under my bed in my room.
Ray grinned. It was hard to feel bad when he smiled at you. “You writing the great American novel?”
“Ha. Right.” I couldn’t help but smile back.
“Hey, you never know!”
A minute later, he handed me a speckled, wide-ruled composition book. I hated wide-ruled notebooks. They made me feel like a first grader.
“Don’t fill it all in one day,” he said.
I heard the front door open at the same time as Ray. He looked over my shoulder and his smile disappeared. When I saw who was standing there, mine did too.
Tristan. Charlie’s best friend. And standing next to him in the doorway, his twin sister, Simone, also a junior, brushing the rain off her clothes.
When Simone saw me, she scowled like I’d offended her. She’d combed her hair over half her face. The one eye I could see was buried under a thick crust of eyeliner. She was in black from head to toe, the only color a bit of her knee peeking out from a rip in her black jeans. She towered over her brother, who was barely taller than me, and I was five foot six.
Their mom walked in after them, clutching a purse. She looked exactly like Simone, but better dressed. She ran a lot of the fund-raising events at Esterfall High.
“Well, look who’s here,” Ray said.