Mary saw my concern. “Well, they’re still trying to figure that out. Eating disorders are very messy things. There’s not one single factor we can point to. It’s not one gene. Scientists believe there are probably a number of genetic markers that could make someone more likely to have an eating disorder, but we are still learning what—and where—they are.”
I wanted it to be simple. I wanted to say, I got anorexia because of this, or because of that, or because of the other thing. I wanted to be able to blame something—or someone.
“It’s a really complex and, frankly, confusing mix of genetics, society, parenting, and about a million other factors,” Mary continued. “But research shows that people with eating disorders in their family are five to six times more likely to develop one themselves.”
“So do you think I got sick because of my mom?”
Mary paused before answering. “From what you’ve told me, your mom does suffer from disordered eating—maybe more. But then there are people who grow up with a relative with an eating disorder and don’t develop anything. And there are people who get one with no family history at all.”
All the women in my family seemed to have a touch of anorexia. My grandmother, too. Some families pass down musical talent. We passed down starving ourselves.
“Mary, if I have a daughter someday, is she doomed, too?”
Mary’s face was so sad it almost made me cry. “I don’t think so. Elizabeth, if it’s any consolation, there’s a big study going on right now to try to find the exact genes that are affected and how. When they can figure it out, there’s a chance it could lead to better treatment or even prevention someday.”
I thought about the girl in Starbucks.
I wish I looked like you.
“I hope they hurry,” I said.
Mary sighed. “Me too, Elizabeth. Me too.”
When I left a few minutes later, I went straight to Michael’s office to find out about Lexi. His door was closed. Muted voices snuck out from time to time, but no words. I heard Lexi’s voice mixed in with others, so I sat on the carpet in the hall and waited. When the door finally opened, I saw Michael and Sally. Both looked grim. Then Lexi walked out, her face weirdly blank.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“You go first,” she said. “What were your results?”
I felt guilty telling her mine. “I’m fine,” I said. “My bones are okay. What about you?”
Then, to my total surprise, Lexi’s face lit up. “All I have is osteopenia in my spine and hip,” she said.
I didn’t get how she could be smiling. Osteopenia meant your bones were already weaker than they should be. It was the precursor to osteoporosis, where your bones were so fragile they could fracture anytime.
“I am so sorry,” I said, reaching for her.
She pulled away. “No, don’t be. Can’t you see? This is something I might be able to fix. I may not ever get rid of my heart stuff, but this? The doctors say it might be reversible. I didn’t ruin myself forever.”
She took my hands then. “I have a chance, Elizabeth. Before, I thought it was too late. But now? I have a chance.” She paused. “We both do.”
19
I went to bed early, exhausted from the day and stuffed from dinner. Salad with dressing. But I ate it. I didn’t want to get to a point where “just” osteopenia was good news.
Moments after retreating under my covers, Margot barged in, flopping down on my bed like she owned it, and tossed her iPod and headphones on my blankets. “Where’s Lexi?” she asked, rolling onto her back and putting her feet up against the wall.
“Well, hello to you, too,” I said, wishing my door had a lock. “She’s watching a movie.”
“Oh. How was your bone density test?”
“It’s fine. My bones are good.” I pointed at her headphones. “What are you listening to?”
“A book about how to find inner peace. It’s by a monk. That’s great news, about your bones.”
“Thanks. Is the book working?”
“Not yet.”
Margot constantly listened to audiobooks on her headphones. She said the voices relaxed her. Last week, she’d told me about a book she’d just finished on the Civil War, and as she spoke, recounting stories we’d never heard in AP History, I’d wanted her to keep talking. It was weird—I’d never felt that way about any history teacher.
Margot sat up and rummaged through the pockets of her overalls. “Hey, before I forget, I have a postcard for you. I picked it up at mail call.”
On the front was a penguin wearing a scarf. Stay Cool, it read. On the back Katrina had written, Miss you soooooo much! Get better! XOXO Katrina, Shay & Priya. She’d signed all their names. Again.
Margot scratched her ear. “Good postcard?”
“Yeah. I guess.” I must not have sounded grateful enough.
“Hey, at least you got something.”
If she wanted to shut me up, it worked. We’d been here for eight days and she’d gotten nothing. “Margot, I’m—”
She cut me off. She didn’t like talking about personal stuff. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
No. I want to go to bed. “Sure,” I said to her.
“When did you first know you’d crossed over into the land of crazy?”
Now I definitely didn’t want to talk.
I couldn’t help but think about it, though. Was it when Katrina called me emo? Or in May, when I stopped going out with friends if food was involved? Or when I started not being able to go to sleep unless I’d run six miles that day? Or was it the night Charlie and I—I stopped myself from even thinking about it. Don’t go there.
Besides, me coming here had nothing to do with Charlie. Not directly, anyway. When I went down, it was in flames. Public, painful flames. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. The Harvest Concert, a week before I checked in to Wallingfield.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, how Americana of you. Do tell.”
I shook my head. “Not something I want to talk about.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not like they won’t make you discuss it in group sometime anyway.”
She was right, and that, right there, was what sucked most about Wallingfield. They got everything out of you eventually. You had no secrets. Mary already knew what happened—she’d been briefed on it before I’d even arrived.
I sighed. “Fine.”
When the choir director asked for a volunteer the day of our annual Harvest Concert, I’d shrunk down in my seat like everybody else in the room.
Ms. Parker wanted someone to dress up like a scarecrow, put on a harness, and fly above the crowd waving a cardboard moon as the choir sang Neil Young’s song “Harvest Moon,” which Ms. Parker had arranged for us herself. People weren’t exactly falling over themselves to volunteer. Then Heather—who else?—called out, “Elizabeth will do it!” and people sat up straight again. A few snickered.
“Wonderful!” Ms. Parker said. “Now, altos, let’s go over the chor—”
I raised my hand. “Ms. Parker, I don’t think I’m a good candidate. I’m”—what was I?—“I’m afraid of heights.”
She frowned. “Oh.” Then she turned to everybody else. “Elizabeth is afraid of heights. Will anybody else volunteer? Raise a hand, please.”
No one did.
Ms. Parker turned to me one more time and, in front of everybody, asked me to reconsider.
“I—I—don’t think—”
“Great!” said Ms. Parker, who was a little desperate. “Thank you so much, Elizabeth!”