Now Dad was running through his list pretty quick, and people were smiling. “So, for carrots I thought, hmm, tasty, and that I could use a good carrot or two right now. Um, for cucumber, I said no thank you—I’ve never liked them. Strawberry ice cream is my favorite flavor, preferably served in a sugar cone with chocolate jimmies. Chips Ahoy! cookies: I like them but think Pepperidge Farm is better. Ah, well, for cheese pizza I thought, with sausage? Yes, please! And, for Diet Coke, I thought of Elizabeth, which made me think of Twizzlers, because she used to use them as a straw when she drank Coke.” Here he paused and looked right at me and smiled warmly. I saw a couple of the other parents and Jean smile too.
Dad was the best. I’d forgotten he’d kept Coke—I’d liked regular Coke back then—on the shelf. Each year on my birthday, I had a slumber party with Katrina, Shay, and Priya. Dad always put a box of brownie mix in his cabinet just so we could “sneak” it after he and Mom went to bed. We’d tiptoe into the kitchen, stir it up, and bring it back down to the basement playroom, where we’d eat the entire bowl of batter, giggling the whole time.
I wondered if the shelf was still filled with goodies, if there was a brownie mix in there from when I turned sixteen. I hadn’t gone near it in over a year.
Dad was almost done now. “Okay, last but not least, I wrote that spaghetti also made me think of Elizabeth because it’s her favorite meal.”
I flushed again and fought the urge to turn to the other girls and say, WAS my favorite meal. I don’t eat that anymore, I swear.
The counselor smiled. “That’s great, Brian. Thank you so much for sharing.”
Jean’s dad thought of carrot cake, his favorite dessert, when he thought about carrots. Cucumbers made Jean’s mom think of the spa. Willa’s mom didn’t care for Ritz Crackers, but she loved strawberry ice cream. Beth’s dad said spaghetti made him think of Swedish meatballs, which he loved. Every parent found something they liked besides the vegetables. And then it was Mom’s turn.
She cleared her throat and lifted her chin like a ballerina. “Okay,” she said, tucking a nonexistent hair behind her ear, something she only did when she was nervous. “So … I don’t know if I did this right … but … here goes. Ritz Crackers make me think of chemicals and whatnot. Carrots are great. Cucumbers are refreshing. Strawberry ice cream … well, I hope it’s okay, but I thought of a date—July Fourth.” She paused and looked around, laughing nervously. We spent every July Fourth in Maine. The town we stayed in put on this totally old-fashioned parade, and every year we bought ice cream cones while we watched. This past summer I’d gotten mad when Dad ordered one for me. I’d refused to touch it. He’d begged me to take a taste but I hadn’t given in, letting it melt down my hand until he angrily gave me permission to toss it. Mom didn’t even order one. When Dad made her taste his, she acted like he fed her an ant.
“Okay, so, um, Chips Ahoy! cookies—funny how they always use that exclamation mark. Well, I wrote that they are delicious, but not for me. I avoid gluten for health reasons.”
She did? That was new. And a total farce. I knew Mom didn’t have celiac disease. She wasn’t even gluten intolerant. She was just anti-calorie and obsessed with trends, and this was the latest one. She’d gone fat-free once. And then she’d avoided sugar. Once, she’d read this book on eating a special diet based on your blood type and tried that. More recently, she’d juiced, fasted, and drunk nothing but lemon water mixed with maple syrup and cayenne pepper for a week.
Mom continued. “Cheese pizza: grease and, again, gluten. Not to mention the dairy. I try hard to limit my dairy. There are all these studies that question whether or not it’s really good for you. Really, it’s no better than junk food. Am I right?”
I’d forgotten about her dairy hang-up.
She laughed a little then, but it was high-pitched and fast. I wanted her to stop. We got the idea.
“Diet Coke: necessary. Very, very necessary.” I’d written practically the same thing. My eyes started to sting a little and I worried that I might start to cry. Mom looked around as if she expected the other parents to agree, but no one did.
“For spaghetti I thought of spaghetti squash, which I eat instead of pasta since it is lower in calories and has few carbs and, of course, no gluten. Surprisingly good, I think.” She put her paper down and flushed. “That’s it.”
She’d basically said that everything except carrots and cucumbers was gross. She could have been a resident. “Thank you, Karen,” Marcia said.
It was one thing for a teenager to starve herself. It was another thing entirely for a mom to do the same thing.
“So, girls, how did it make you feel to hear your parents’ reactions to food?” Marcia asked.
Allie spoke first. “Fine. I mean, they’re parents. They’re supposed to like that sort of stuff.”
What about my mom? I almost asked, but didn’t. I couldn’t get the words out. People already felt sorry for me. I could tell.
No one would ever have guessed my mom was anything besides a naturally thin woman who’d won the genetic lottery unless they ate with her. I remembered when we were at a doctor’s appointment last June, the first time Dr. Brach told her that my weight was starting to get too low. Her response? “Okay, but how can we ensure that if she gains, she doesn’t gain too much?”
When the family therapy session ended and we filed out of the room to say goodbye to our parents, Mom pulled me aside. “You okay?”
I slipped out of her grasp. “What? Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know, honey. You just don’t look good. I’m worried.”
Took you long enough, I almost said, but I bit my tongue just in time. I didn’t want a fight. Not now, anyway. “I’m fine.”
She watched me for a long second. “I’m going to catch up to your dad.”
“Okay.” Right then, there was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted her to say. But I’d say the wrong thing. She would, too. Instead, I watched her expertly dodge the other participants. Her waist was narrow in her dress. I hated that I noticed.
18
Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Nurse Jill shepherded Lexi and me out to a white van with the Wallingfield logo on the door in big blue letters. So much for being discreet. Might as well have suction-cupped a yellow diamond-shaped sign to the back window that read, FREAKS ON BOARD.
Ray was behind the wheel. The bone scan clinic was half an hour away, and on the highway we passed two shopping malls, both bustling with people. From the van windows, the action in the parking lots—the bright-colored cars circling for spots, the people in their rainbow of winter coats walking to and from Target and Best Buy and Nordstrom Rack with shopping bags in hand—looked like a movie set. It felt like forever since I’d done something as normal as go to Target.
After we parked, Ray escorted us into the drab office building and up to the fourth-floor waiting room. Three women, all about my grandma’s age, sat in chairs. One frowned when she saw us. The second looked confused. The third’s back was so hunched she could only look at her shoes. I kept my eyes on the floor. A nurse called Lexi and me in at the same time. “Good luck, guys,” said Ray. “I’ll be right here.”
Lexi made a face at him. “Good luck? I’ve already ruined my heart. I’m sure I’ve completely destroyed my bones, too.”