“So.” Marcia held out the ball like it was a diamond or something. “I want you to look ahead to the end of your time here at Wallingfield. What will you want to have accomplished? Where will you want to be? What would you like to be able to do that maybe wasn’t possible before because of your illness?” She paused and looked around at the six of us, all dramatic-like. Across the circle, Allie picked at her fingernails. Jean, as always, listened and nodded. I, personally, was disappointed. This was basically regular group. The Magic 8 Ball was just a gimmick, a stand-in for the talking stick, a wooden baton covered with glitter glue and ribbon that we took turns holding during discussions.
Marcia continued. “I’d love for you to take a few moments to either draw or write down your thoughts, and then we’ll share. If you have the 8 Ball,” she said, shaking it for emphasis, “you have the floor. And, like always, if you aren’t comfortable, you can pass, okay?” We nodded.
What did I want? I thought about what Lexi had said the other day as she was leaving. I believe we will have a day…, she’d said. So I wrote about that.
I want a day where I wake up and eat pancakes for breakfast with butter and hot maple syrup. And then I want to go to school and have a muffin during study hall. I want a day where I eat school lunch and a chocolate chip cookie and Jell-O for dessert like Priya. For dinner I want to have spaghetti and meatballs with tons of Parmesan cheese on top and cake—two fat slices. I want to eat all that and be happy with how I look. And I want to stay a size 0.
I scratched out the last sentence. We weren’t supposed to talk about sizes or weight. If I wanted to go home, I needed to stop saying stuff like that. But it was true. I did want to stay how I was and eat pancakes. There were healthy size 0 girls. Why couldn’t I be one?
Marcia cleared her throat and said, “So, how’s it going?” She looked around as Jean, the last to finish, put down her pencil.
“Okay,” Marcia said, “who would like to share?”
I took a deep breath, sucked it up, and raised my hand like I’d promised myself I would. “I’ll go.”
“Great!” Marcia passed me the 8 Ball.
I opened my mouth to read what I’d written, but no noise came out. Suddenly, I couldn’t read what I’d said about food. I was embarrassed by all my wanting.
“Well, I want to get better. I want to run again. I want to, um, feel like I have a lot of energy.”
Marcia looked around, her eyes inviting other people to respond to what I’d said.
“Those all sound like good goals, Elizabeth,” said Jean obediently. “I liked the one about you having energy. I feel like I have more energy, but it makes me feel uncomfortable, like there’s this voice inside my head that says I’m a failure if I have more energy, or want to eat.”
I nodded, passing her the 8 Ball. That voice talked to me constantly, too.
“Do you think that’s Jean’s voice, or her eating disorder’s voice?” Marcia asked. “The eating disorder’s voice can be very strong sometimes. It doesn’t want to let you go. It’s a terrible bully. But that other voice, the one that is glad to have more energy, that’s you talking.”
Jean nodded, brows furrowed, like Marcia had just announced that cronuts were good for you. She wasn’t convinced, I could tell.
“Remember, everybody,” Marcia said, “that your eating disorder is not a person. It isn’t you. If you have measles or chicken pox, are you measles or chicken pox? Are you strep throat? Or pneumonia? Or the flu? No, right? You might fight those illnesses, but they don’t define who you are. Eating disorders are the same. They do not make up your being.”
I got that, sort of. But who was I without it? “What would I think about all day? What would I do with all my time?”
I didn’t realize I’d said that stuff aloud until it was too late. Everybody was staring at me. I wanted to reach up in the air and grab back every word.
Beth answered, “When I was first in recovery, it took me a while to figure out what to do with myself.” She pulled her long gray cardigan tight around her shoulders and tucked her chin-length blond hair behind her ears. This was her third stint at a treatment center. She’d made it a whole year before she’d relapsed. This time was the worst, she said. It was like her anorexia had settled in her bone marrow and she couldn’t get it out.
“But then, as time went on, I started to realize that I’d liked to do lots of things, back before all this stuff happened.” As she spoke, the room was so quiet that you could hear new age music playing in the dance studio down the hall.
“Like what?” Willa finally asked.
“I liked to cook dinner. I loved taking college classes. Swimming was pretty fun, too. And I played field hockey. I was a forward, and I was good.” Her cheeks reddened when she said that, like she was embarrassed to give herself credit. “After a while, I started cooking again, and I signed up for a class on Jane Austen.” I knew she’d dropped out of college when she came back here. “I thought I’d finish college, finally. I’m twenty-three. All my high school friends are done with school, but I only have one semester of credits.” Beth stopped talking, and everyone was quiet for a moment, thinking of all the things we used to do, before we got sick.
And then Jean spoke. “I hope Jasper forgives me.” Jasper was Jean’s horse. In group therapy, she’d told us how she hadn’t missed a day riding him in ten years until she went into treatment the first time, six months after her coach said she needed to lose weight if she wanted to make the Olympic trials. She called Jasper her best friend.
“I had my bone scan yesterday,” she said now, voice flat. “It turns out that I have osteoporosis in my back and osteopenia in my hips. My bones could break if I fall, so I can’t ride.”
Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter. We leaned in, as if getting closer would comfort her somehow.
“How long until you can ride again?” Allie asked.
“I can’t ride again. Ever.” Jean’s voice cracked on the last syllable. “They’re going to sell Jasper as soon as I get home. They’re waiting so I can say goodbye.”
I stared at Jean, trying to send her sympathy via mental telepathy, but that’s not what she needed. She needed a hug. I jumped out of my seat and threw my arms around her. She started bawling. I cried too. How could I not? It was just all so sad. And I wasn’t the only one.
Marcia waited until most of us were in the sniffle stage, and then she tried to lead us in figuring out why we were all crying at once.
“Maybe the 8 Ball knows,” Margot said, which made us giggle. When she added, “Why don’t you ask it?” we started full-out laugh-crying.
And that’s how our Magic 8 Ball session ended.
27
The next morning, as I was getting out of bed, I felt a wetness between my legs. Was I leaking pee? Sweating for some reason? Ugh. I hope not. Disgusting. I went to the bathroom, and when I pulled down my underpants I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw the bright red splotch. My period.