Two clicks later and Mom was there, clearing her throat. “Hello,” she added, her voice small and far away. She sounded nervous. Like me. I pictured her at her desk, her big computer in front of her, and suddenly I was glad that we were doing this by phone.
“Okay so far?” Mary mouthed. I nodded. Mary gave me a thumbs-up. I wasn’t so sure that would be the gesture I’d choose.
“How are you doing?” Dad asked, his voice overly cheerful.
“Good, Dad. I’m good.” The least I could do was lie about that, I thought.
Then Mary dug in. When she leaned over, her shirt bloused out and her body looked barrel shaped. “Hi, Brian. So today I wanted to focus on addressing some of the issues and concerns Elizabeth has been talking about over these last couple of weeks.”
“Okay,” he said. He sounded guarded, defensive.
“I’d like to start by talking about family support both while Elizabeth is here and when she goes home.” Mary spoke like she was telling someone where to find the bathroom. I admired her cool demeanor.
“Sure,” Dad said hurriedly. “We’ll do anything we can.”
“As you know, Elizabeth has been working very hard.”
“I know she has. We are very proud,” said Dad.
I chewed my fingernail.
Mary cleared her throat. “Karen?”
Mom hesitated, and then, with surprising power, “Yes?”
“Elizabeth and I have been talking a bit about how meals go at your house. I’d be curious to hear your impression of them.”
Mom didn’t even pause. “Well, I’m the one who cooks for all of us. We eat together every night,” she said. “I like to think that Brian and I model healthy eating habits for Elizabeth.”
I shook my head and wrote on the pad: Mom doesn’t eat anything!!!!!
“Karen? Elizabeth has something to say.” She smiled encouragingly at me.
“I … I don’t know if I agree, Mom.” We were in uncharted territory now. In our house, Mom’s next-to-nothing eating was normal.
“Karen?” Mary sounded so encouraging, like she was trying to get Mom to tell her a secret recipe or something.
Dad jumped in, talking fast. “Karen has always been a mindful eater.”
“Karen?” Mary asked again.
I gripped the arms of the chair and counted the ceiling tiles. One … two … three … Stay calm, Elizabeth. Stay calm.
“Well, Brian is right. I am cautious about what I choose to put in my body. You can’t not be these days.”
Mary nodded. “I see. Can you describe what you mean by cautious?”
Mom’s tone turned defensive. “Well, you know, I eat a lot of vegetables, low-fat meats, watch my carb intake—I basically don’t eat white foods.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And why is that?”
“White foods are processed foods, you know?”
I looked at Mary as if to say, See!
“Got it. Do you count calories in front of your daughter?”
Mom paused. The silence stretched a few too many seconds. “Only to be healthy.”
Mary switched tactics. “What will be most helpful for Elizabeth when she does eventually come home is to have parents who eat well-balanced, fulfilling dinners without worry. Ones where everybody eats the same thing. Do you feel that you can do this for her?”
“Of course!” Mom’s confidence was back. “We do healthy already. We don’t overindulge, but we eat. We go to restaurants, enjoy our meals, et cetera. I think we’re fine in that regard.”
But she’d never been fine. A memory of a dinner out popped into my head. I was ten. I’d ordered a cheeseburger. Mom had ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. It came with mayonnaise. By the time she’d carefully sliced off the surface of the chicken—simply scraping wouldn’t remove all the mayo, she claimed—and cut off the polluted parts of the bun, she’d had about four bites left. “Now it’s perfect!” I remember her saying. Except that then, she didn’t touch it at all. Watching her had made me self-conscious, and I’d refused to touch my burger, ashamed that I was such a pig.
I scribbled furiously on the pad. SHE IS LYING!!!!!!
Mary gestured for me to speak. I shook my head no. I didn’t trust myself. My heart hammered hard against my chest.
So she spoke instead. “Elizabeth just reacted very strongly to what you said, Karen. Why do you think that is?”
Mom paused, and then said, “Well, I have no idea. I mean, I am happy with my diet, and like I said, I’ve always encouraged Elizabeth to eat when—”
I shook my head. No. She was lying. And Dad, by supporting her, was lying, too. When I opened my mouth I had to force the words out, and they came out softer than I wanted. “Mom,” I said, my voice catching, “you don’t encourage me. It feels like you do the opposite sometimes. When I’m with you, I get so stressed about food.”
“Elizabeth! Why would you say such a—”
“Mom, other kids’ moms, they don’t seem to care if their kids have ice cream sometimes. Like, I’ve never seen a mom tell their kid they could only get the frozen yogurt.” I paused, took a deep breath, and then I said it. I went where no Barnes had ever gone before. “Um … I could be wrong or projecting or something, but I sort of think that maybe you think about food a little too much.”
In sixth grade, Mom had plucked a bowl of ice cream out of my hands. “Your metabolism can’t handle so many sweets,” she’d said apologetically as she jammed the scoops of melting mint chocolate chip down the roaring disposal with my spoon. At the time I didn’t get it. Ashamed of my appetite, I burst into tears. Mom thought I was crying because I wanted more ice cream. All the other girls in my class ate ice cream. Was my metabolism different from theirs?
Mom sniffed in the background. Great. I’d made her cry.
“Elizabeth, let’s be kind. Your mom sounds pretty upset!” Dad’s voice sliced through me as he took her side, like always.
“Dad, do you think I’m wrong?” My breath quivered.
Mary popped in, unruffled, like we were discussing the weather. “So, Brian, Elizabeth has brought a lot of emotion into the conversation. What do you—”
Suddenly I felt left out. Mom and Dad always took each other’s side. But who was taking mine? I didn’t want to talk to anybody. What was the point, really? “I need to go,” I whispered.
“Brian, Karen, one minute please,” Mary said quickly, hitting the hold button.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here. I can’t do this right now. I just can’t—”
“Elizabeth, we are just getting into—”
I stood up. The office felt tiny, almost nauseatingly small. “I can’t talk to them anymore.” The pillow in my lap fell to the floor. I left it there.
Mary hit the hold button again. “Karen, Brian,” she said. “Elizabeth would like a break. What do you say we continue this at another time?”
“Oh? Oh, okay. I guess so,” Dad said.
“I’ll e-mail you some dates for follow-up, or we can touch base next Saturday.” Saturday was Family Day, which was different from all the other weekly family group sessions because everybody ate lunch together, too. I wanted to throw up.
“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, honey, we love you.” His voice caught on the word love.
On Mom’s end, all I heard was crying. And then, nothing. The receiver clicked.
Mary looked over at me. “Elizabeth, I—”
I interrupted her. “It’s time for lunch.” And I walked out.