“When do I have to go back to school?”
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. Dad cleared his throat. “Well, everyone agrees that it wouldn’t be productive for you to sit home, so right now, since you’re getting out on a Friday, we’re all thinking Monday would be the best return date.”
“Monday? That’s too soon.” I’d thought I’d definitely be able to push it back by a week or so. “Do I have any say in the matter?”
Dad’s face twitched. “This is what Mary recommends—”
“So you’re saying that I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He knew exactly what. “Have a say.”
Mom leaned toward me. “Honey, Mary knows what she’s doing. Wallingfield has helped so many girls transition back to home.”
Yeah, right. Wallingfield was so far from perfect. “Lexi is back, you know. She lost ten pounds in two weeks. So I wouldn’t totally count on Wallingfield for my full recovery.”
Mom and Dad went quiet, and Dad paled a little. I’d unnerved them.
Good.
“Well,” Dad said, his voice not quite as strong, “I still think it would be great for you to get back into your routine.”
“I don’t.” I never wanted to go back to school.
Dad reached over for my hand. “Honey, that’s enough for now. Let’s not worry about this tonight. Let’s just focus on dinner.” I pulled my hand away, knowing there was no point in arguing. When Dad said enough, he meant it.
So it was settled. In one week, I’d be going back to school. And I had absolutely no say in the matter.
38
Right when I wanted life to slow down, for the days to crawl, they sped up. It was Wednesday, dinner-out day, before I knew it. At five o’clock I climbed into the white van with the Wallingfield logo on the door. Nurse Jill and Jean were already inside.
None of us talked on the way. Nurse Jill put on the easy-listening station as she drove. The evening was clear and cold. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet and Fierman’s Hardware already had its twinkly lights up. So did the used bookstore and the coffee shop. I thought I saw a freshman from the high school walking into Sam’s grocery store as we passed, but I couldn’t be sure. I ducked down anyway, just in case.
Finch’s had a bar at one end and a dark dining room on the other with low ceilings and cozy booths and tables. The miniskirted hostess seated us at a big, old wooden table in the back of the dining room, the table surface soft and a little sticky from years of use.
We were their first customers for dinner, and seventies rock music blared. At first Nurse Jill tried to chat over the songs, but gave up and asked the hostess to turn it down. She turned it so low we could hear the distant clanking of dishes in the kitchen.
“So,” Nurse Jill said. “What are you all going to have?” Her voice rang out across the empty dining room.
“The turkey sandwich,” Jean said.
“Me too.” I was glad Jean and I were in this together.
We knew because we’d seen the menu already. We’d each met with Sally, the nutritionist, in the morning to go over what we might eat.
At first I’d thought it would be easy. “I’ll have the green salad, add grilled chicken, with oil and vinegar for the dressing,” I’d told her. That’s what I usually got when my family went to Finch’s. It came with six thin slices of chicken breast, and I’d always eat exactly one-half of one and most of the lettuce, sprinkled with a little plain vinegar. I’d use the extra lettuce to try to hide some of my uneaten chicken in case anybody noticed.
But Sally didn’t like that idea. “Honey,” she said softly, “you have to order something as is from the entrée section.”
I’d panicked. Hamburgers, pasta, fish. Fish! That sounded promising. I scanned the menu. There it was! Pan-fried halibut with panko breadcrumbs. My heart sank. No way was I ordering fried anything. The fish was out.
I kept searching. Salads—spinach and blue cheese and walnuts. Nope. Steak fajita salad with guacamole, cheese, and sour cream in a taco bowl. Nope. Sunrise salad with avocado, bacon, goat cheese, and creamy— Nope. I was getting desperate.
Then I reread the sandwich menu. Cheeseburger. Grilled cheese. Fried fish sandwich. Fried chicken sandwich. BLT. Egg salad. Cheesesteak sandwich. When I was younger I used to get the cheesesteak sandwich every time. It came with fries. I loved their fries. Correction—I used to love their fries.
I almost cried out in relief when I saw the turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce, lettuce, and tomato. “I’ll have that,” I’d said to Sally, pointing to it.
“Really? Okay, great. Done.” Sally had taken back the menu with relief. “So tonight we really want you to try to eat at least half of your meal as is. This way, when you go out with friends and family, you’ll be able to eat regularly, like they do.”
“My mom doesn’t,” I’d said sharply, and then felt bad. Mom was right. Old habits died hard. I was trying to give Mom the benefit of the doubt more, but sometimes it was tough.
“Well, most people,” Sally said.
As much as I hated to admit it, Mary was right about one thing. Knowing what I was going to order in advance did make me feel better. In fact, when the waitress came over, I wasn’t nervous at all. “Hi, ladies,” she said with a big fake smile. “My name is Elaine, and I’ll be your server.” Finch’s had an agreement with Wallingfield—they always reserved this same table when a group of us came. “Here are your menus.” She placed them on the table fast, like she was scared of us. I didn’t blame her.
Nurse Jill opened hers. “Shit,” she muttered. She got out her phone, stared at it for a second like she wanted to make a call, then put it away. “Pass me your menus, girls.” Confused, we did as she said. She stood and walked straight to the manager.
They spoke quietly, but the occasional word reached us anyway—“changed … I understand … winter specialties … We have an agreement … This won’t happen again…”
The manager shook her head, made the universal nothing-I-can-do-about-it shrug, and said, “Sorry.”
Eventually Nurse Jill returned and handed back our menus. “Girls,” she said, clearing her throat, “it looks like we hit Finch’s on the very night they are debuting their new winter menu. Isn’t that exciting?”
My throat closed. Jean squeaked. I turned to the sandwich page. Please be there, I prayed. Please be there.
It wasn’t.
The roasted turkey sandwich was gone. The only item even remotely like it was a turkey melt, which was listed with no description. My calorie radar spiked, but the other choices were worse: burgers, fried fish on a bun, grilled cheese.
Elaine returned. “So, ladies, what can I get you?” Nurse Jill ordered pasta, and then nodded to me.