Mom looked at me, alarmed, and rushed down the hall. I went upstairs.
A few minutes later I heard her on her phone. She sounded upset. And I got it. It was totally weird. Honestly, I didn’t understand why I’d done it either. I barely even made myself a cup of coffee these days. “She baked a cake … No, really. I’m not kidding … I’m looking at it right now … It has coconut all over it … I don’t know where she got the ingredients … She probably went to the store … Honey, she’s sixteen and very capable of going to the grocery store by herself … What?… No! I will not have a piece to calm down … Just hurry up and get here.”
She snapped her phone shut; I bolted to my room before she saw me and did sit-ups until my stomach burned.
When Dad came home, he whistled downstairs. I heard him say to Mom, “I think it’s a good thing,” and offer to cook dinner.
I came down at six o’clock to find that someone had put the cake in the middle of the dinner table. The top layer looked uneven; it had slid ever so slightly off to the left.
I fought the urge to fix it.
I sat down and Dad set a plate completely covered with a mountain of pasta, two meatballs perched on top like eyeballs. I hadn’t eaten anything like that in months.
“To our wonderful chef,” Dad said then, smiling at me. “May you find your happiness here at our table.” And then we clinked glasses and I realized that Dad was celebrating because he thought the “phase,” as he liked to call my anorexia, had passed.
After a few minutes, Dad put down his fork. “Elizabeth, aren’t you going to try it? I made your favorite.” On the word favorite his voice turned to flat-out pleading. “Please, honey, take a few bites. I made it just the way you like.”
I shook my head. I didn’t have a favorite meal anymore.
On a regular night, Dad would have sighed and escaped as soon as possible. But now he refused to play his part. He slammed his fork on the table. Mom and I jumped. “Damn it! Elizabeth Barnes, take a bite of your dinner.”
I shook my head, tears dripping off the end of my nose and onto my Parmesan. I so wanted to please him, to make him smile, to keep from breaking his heart. But I didn’t have a choice.
“I can’t,” I cried, leaping up so fast I knocked over my chair. Then I bolted, leaving Mom and Dad sitting there in silence.
Later that night, after my parents went to bed, I snuck downstairs. The cake sat on its pedestal in the kitchen. One slice was gone—Dad, of course—and the whole thing was covered in plastic wrap. I unwrapped it slowly, one clear piece at a time. The delicious, sweet-and-slightly-sour smell of coconut and cream cheese drifted into my nose. I admired the moistness of the cake itself, the perfect pale yellow color of the layers, just like the cakes Martha Stewart made on her TV show. A lip of pale, rich frosting, perfect for a one-finger taste, clung to a cut edge. I scooped it up with my finger.
It smelled divine.
I brought it to my mouth, so close I could taste it. I knew how the frosting would feel silky on my tongue, how the cream cheese would cut the sweetness and make it delicious. I salivated. It would be so good.
I went to the sink and turned the hot water on high. And then, after one last sweet inhale, I put my finger under the hot water and watched the frosting melt away. I scrubbed until my skin was red.
After I shut off the water, I turned back to the cake, so pretty it could have been in a magazine. I fixed the crooked layer, pushing it back into place with a fingertip. When I picked it up, it was heavier than I’d thought it would be. “Sorry, cake,” I whispered. Then, with all my strength, I hurled it into the garbage can and watched all four layers sag down its metal insides, leaving a thick trail of frosting behind.
Now, though, as I pulled on my PJs in my room that still smelled faintly of cider doughnut, I wished I’d at least tasted the frosting. I bet it was delicious.
29
Saturday came before I was ready for it. At home, I loved Saturdays. I’d go for a long run, then sit around and drink coffee, and then Katrina and I would hang out or go to the mall or something. But at Wallingfield? Not so much. It was Family Day, which meant a group session and lunch with our parents. Everyone pretty much hated it.
I still hadn’t talked to Mom since our phone therapy appointment. We were at a standoff, and I was determined not to be the one to give in first.
At 10:30, people started to filter in. From my spot on the couch in the common room, I watched the reunions taking place. There were tears (sometimes), happy squeals, awkward silences, and one angry tirade when Coral yelled at her parents about being late, which they weren’t. They just stood there looking exhausted.
Beth’s parents sat on either side of her on a couch. They talked quietly. Allie gave her parents a tour. I wondered whether she’d take them to the fishbowl—And here, Mom, is the room where we go when we’re super screwed up. See how windows surround it? That’s so that the nurses can watch us all the time to be sure we don’t kill ourselves or run in place for six hours straight. I love the dull brown decor, don’t you?
By 11:15 I began to wonder if my parents weren’t coming. To be honest, I was a teeny-tiny bit hurt. Despite all my mixed-up feelings, I wanted them to want to come. And then, at 11:27, when I’d just about given up waiting for them, there they were, walking down the hall toward my room. A little blip of glad went through me, but only for a second. “Hey,” I said super casually, like I didn’t care. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
They didn’t take my bait. “Well, hello to you, too,” Mom said.
She wore an expensive-looking blouse I hadn’t seen before, pearls, a black skirt that went to her knees, and black boots. I bet she’d bought her outfit just for today.
Her eyes traveled my body, and when she got to my legs, she pursed her lips before forcing an I-love-my-daughter-and-am-so-happy-to-see-her smile. That’s when I remembered why I hadn’t wanted them to come.
But then Mom opened her arms, and for a second I forgot I was mad at her. She smelled familiar and all Mom-like and I squeezed her hard, not wanting to let her go.
We were mid-hug when it all came back: the phone conversation, the way she hadn’t called all week, and I pulled away. She pretended not to notice, saying in this fake perky voice instead, “When is lunch? I can’t wait to eat!” Her voice kicked up a notch at the end, like she’d rehearsed in the car or something.
Dad winced.
And just like that, my warm feelings for her turned to ice. “Mom, when have you ever been excited for lunch?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I love lunch!”