He didn’t say anything. Mom kept going. I sank down in my seat until I could barely see her over the heads of the people in front of me. “And what about the moms I see in the grocery store? You know, the ones with the carts loaded up with frozen pizzas and ice cream and Kool-Aid and candy and … Well, you get the point. What about them? Aren’t they bad parents too? Aren’t they?”
She looked suddenly surprised, like she couldn’t believe she’d just said all that out loud, here, in front of me. In front of everyone. Dad stood up and shimmied his way out of our row. Mom didn’t seem to notice. When he got up to where she was, he took her arm, but she shook him off, cleared her throat, smoothed her skirt again, and leaned into the microphone one last time. “But now I’m thinking that maybe I am. A bad parent. And I feel terrible. But what does that help?” She paused. She let Dad put his hand on her elbow this time. “Thank you,” she said, and stepped away from the microphone. Except, instead of coming back to her seat, she walked straight out of the room. Dad left too. Abandoned, I sat in my seat for a moment, too stunned to know what to do. After a moment or two, I stood up and followed them out the door, every eye in the room watching me go.
When I turned the corner, Mom was crumpled on a chair in the hall. Dad was on one knee next to her, kneading her hand and speaking quietly. I hadn’t even reached them when I heard footsteps behind me. It was Mary.
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked them softly, like she was a funeral director or something.
“No, thank you,” Mom said, laughing humorlessly. “I’m sorry about what happened in there. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just a difficult time. That’s all.”
Mary shook her head. “Don’t worry, Karen. Why don’t we go into my office where we can speak privately?”
“No, thank you,” Mom said, clearing her throat and standing up. “Brian and I actually have to be going.”
Dad looked startled. “Karen, I—”
“Brian,” Mom said. “Elizabeth—I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I need to collect my thoughts. Maybe in a couple of days…” She didn’t look at me.
“What? You guys are leaving?” I said, my voice wavering. “How can you just leave? We haven’t met with Mary yet, and…”
“I know all that,” Mom said, “but I can’t do this right now. I am so sorry. Brian, I’ll be in the car.” She looked pale and like she might pass out.
“Mom, did you have breakfast?” I said this softly. I didn’t want to make her feel worse, but I had to know.
“Of course, Elizabeth. I had what I always had.” She’d had nonfat Greek yogurt, exactly one measured half cup, half of the recommended serving size. A total of 65 calories. She ate it every day at exactly 6:45 a.m., no matter what her schedule. It was 1:30 now and she’d barely touched her lunch. She needed to eat something. For a second, I felt like the mother. “Mom, you haven’t eaten enough today. Why don’t we ask Mary for a sna—”
“Elizabeth, I’m fine.” She turned to Dad. “I’ll be in the car.” Her high heels clicked down the hall.
Dad turned toward me. “Elizabeth, I…”
“Dad, stop.” He couldn’t make this better. Nobody could.
“But, honey, you need to…”
“Dad, Mom has a problem. Do you hear me? She needs help.”
“What? I don’t think so.”
“Oh my God! How can you guys be so in denial? Mom. Doesn’t. Eat. She doesn’t. How can you not see that?”
“Elizabeth, I don’t think it’s fair—”
“Fair? You want to talk to me about fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair. That I’m in here taking one for the team while you and Mom just turn your heads and pretend she’s normal. You know what? Go,” I cried. “Now. Go, okay?”
“Honey, I think that your mom, she’s ju—”
The look I gave him shut him up.
He cleared his throat and tried again, speaking fast. “She’s upset. It isn’t that she doesn’t love you or support you. She’s hurting, that’s all.”
“What? She’s hurting? SHE’S hurting? When are you going to wake up? Look at me! Look where I am!” The family meeting had ended and people were coming out of the community room.
Somewhere in my anger I heard Mary. “Elizabeth, let’s take this into my office, where…”
“No,” I said. “I’m done.” I left my dad in the hallway and ran to my room. That short sprint, a total of maybe fifty feet, set adrenaline coursing through my body and all I wanted to do was keep running, but I was already at my door, stuck in this stupid hospital. Stuck with my crappy mother. Stuck with my own crazy thoughts.
*
Ten minutes passed. I rolled over on my back and looked at the ceiling. It had those tiles where, if you threw a newly sharpened pencil hard enough, straight up, it would stick. We had those in Mr. Roberts’s US History classroom. Whenever he turned his back, people would chuck their pencils at the ceiling. A few would stick, but most wouldn’t and they’d end up clattering onto the linoleum floor. He never admitted that he knew what we were doing; he’d just ask in his most cynical voice why so many people were always dropping their pencils. I have duct tape if your fingers can’t hold a writing implement, he’d say crankily.
When the knock came I didn’t get off my bed. I wondered who’d drawn the short straw to come talk to me—Mom or Dad.
“Go away,” I said, even as I realized that I didn’t really want them to leave.
“Elizabeth,” Willa said through the door, “can I come in?”
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t want Willa to see me cry. Willa at my door meant that my parents had left. They’d gotten in their car, put on their seat belts, started up the engine, and left me without even saying goodbye. When I’d told Dad to go, I’d wanted him to refuse. I wanted Mom to come back inside, for them to still be waiting for me outside my door, unwilling to leave until they knew I was all right.
Willa knocked again. “Elizabeth? Are you okay?”
I wiped my eyes, opened the door a crack, and lay back down, this time on the carpet. The hard floor felt good. I don’t know why. Willa and Margot stood over me, looking down.
“Hey,” Willa said. “You’re on the floor.” Her tiny mass was a shadow; the light from the bedside lamp seemed to shine through her.
“Yup,” I said.
“Want to go to your bed?” Margot asked.
“Nope. I’ll stay down here, thanks.”
They sat next to me on the floor. My parents might have left, but Margot and Willa were here. And that was something. Willa squeezed my hand.
“You’re adopted?” I asked.
She nodded. “My mom is actually my aunt. My birth mother left me when I was four. Mom didn’t even know I existed. It took a year for them to find her. She took me in when I was five and adopted me a year later, when my birth mom gave up all rights. I don’t know for sure if my real mom is even still alive.”
“I’m sorry, Willa.” And then I touched her scars. I’d never asked about them before. “What happened here?” I asked softly.
“I used to cut myself. That’s what got me in here. Well, that and my eating. The doctor, who I saw after I did this,” she said, pointing to a thin red line across her wrist, “said I was the youngest self-harmer he’d ever seen, that it usually starts around fourteen.”
“How old were you when you started?”