“Sure, Dad, take her side, like always.” I took a miserable bite of banana.
Nurse Jill stood up. “Excuse me, everybody,” she said. “We have ten minutes left for lunch, and then we’ll begin the family program. Ten minutes, everybody. Enjoy!” The word enjoy seemed especially cruel.
For the rest of lunch we sat in silence, Mom and me struggling, Dad having no idea what to do about it. With every bite I took I was convinced Mom was watching me, worried about the food making me fat. I knew what Mary would say—Elizabeth, most likely your mom is worried about her own meal and not paying attention to yours—but I couldn’t process her words. I finished, but barely.
When Nurse Jill finally announced that lunch was over, I didn’t know who was more relieved: Mom, Dad, or me. Without a word, Mom walked out of the room, leaving Dad, her untouched lunch, and me behind.
I followed her. When I glanced back, Dad was still sitting there, staring at Mom’s full plate like the saddest man in the world. Considering the people in the room, that was saying a lot.
30
Always one to keep up appearances, Mom saved two seats next to her in the group therapy room. Reluctantly I took one, careful to leave a seat between us. I crossed my legs and folded my arms across myself.
Simone and her parents sat in the front row. I thanked the universe Tristan wasn’t with them.
Margot was in the last row with the other “orphans.” She’d wrapped a huge knitted scarf around her neck and I could see an earbud peeking out of one side. Smart girl.
Behind us, Willa was negotiating with her mom. “I want to go home,” she pleaded. “Please don’t make me stay here. What do I need to do to get you to take me with you today?” Her mom seemed so great. Just watching them at lunch—the way she leaned in when Willa talked, and laughed when she spoke, and hugged her when she finished her lunch made me jealous. And annoyed at Willa. I wanted to turn around and say, If you want to go home so bad, Willa, eat something! Stop hiding your food!
“Um … hello?” Mary tapped the microphone. The chatter in the room died down. “Thank you all for coming. The point of this meeting is to give parents and patients a chance to share experiences. So often, when I speak to people dealing with an eating disorder in their family, they speak of feeling like no one else can understand what they are going through.” A few people around the room nodded in agreement. “Well, here at Wallingfield, you are not alone. We are in this battle together.”
She talked about Wallingfield and what it wanted (us to get better) and who needed support (everybody). Then she said, “I’d like to open the floor up to you. No need to raise hands.”
No one spoke. Only the shuffling of feet and an occasional cough broke the silence. And then, in the row in front of us, Jean’s father stood up. He was tall and narrow like his daughter. Awkwardly, he walked to the front and took the mic.
“My name is Frank Parsons. I’m here to support my daughter, Jean. I guess what I want to say today is that it is really hard as a dad to know that your baby girl is hurting and that the situation is completely out of your control. But I want to thank everybody here at Wallingfield for taking such good care of our Jean and, to some extent, taking care of her parents, too. This has been the darkest year of our lives, but we are comforted to know she is so well cared for here. She looks wonderful. Healthy. Happy. So thank you.” Nurse Jill and others nodded. He sat down and gave Jean’s shoulder a squeeze. Jean leaned into him.
Willa’s mom got up next. She cleared her throat before speaking. “As some of you know, I am not Willa’s biological mother.”
I felt my eyes widen and I resisted the urge to turn around and say to Willa, What?
“I adopted her out of foster care when she was five. Since then, she has been my beacon of light. But the last couple of years have been hard. Terribly hard for both of us. I want to thank Wallingfield for caring for my baby so well. I wonder sometimes why the good Lord would pile so much on one little girl’s shoulders. But I have faith Willa will persevere. Thank you.”
Willa was adopted? Why hadn’t she ever said anything?
And then I heard Mom’s folding chair creak. She stood almost defiantly, picking her way through the crowd of about thirty parents and patients until she reached the microphone. I forgot all about Willa. I prayed Mom was just going to do the same thing as the other parents. Thank Wallingfield, profess her undying love for me, and then sit down.
“Hello?” The microphone whined. Mom’s head snapped back. Mary darted out of her seat and fiddled with the knobs on the amplifier. The whining cut out. Mom leaned in again. “Hello … So, I am Elizabeth’s mom.” I looked over to see Dad gripping the metal edge of his chair.
“I came here today relieved, because I knew Elizabeth was safe. I didn’t have to worry about her.” Willa’s mom nodded along with a few other parents. “So thank you, for your care and concern for our daughter.” Then Mom leaned closer to the mic like it was an ear and she had a secret. I sat up straighter. “This has been a tough experience for all of us. Right before Elizabeth was admitted, the doctor told me I needed to model good eating habits for my daughter. I always thought I had—we live a healthy life, at least in my opinion. We did everything we were supposed to—no sweets, no carbs, low fat or fat free whenever possible. A healthy weight is a part of that. That’s why, when the scale snuck up, I would monitor my food more carefully. And I did the same for Elizabeth because I didn’t want her to ever feel ashamed of her appearance. We would talk about it together, the importance of staying fit and trim.” The room was quiet—so quiet that it felt like everybody else was holding their breath.
“I just meant for her to stay healthy. But apparently, I was supposed to just let her eat whatever she liked and never comment, even when she hit puberty and started to gain. Apparently saying something made me a bad parent.” She looked around, but this time people didn’t nod. They just sat there, staring at their laps. Dad’s face was as white as a dinner plate.
I elbowed him. “Make her stop,” I whispered.