Thin

I wrap my arms

around myself,

squeeze tightly,

as if unwilling to let go,

but I have no idea why.

“Why are you so upset, Mom?”

Tears pool

in my eyes

for reasons

I have yet to find out.

Mom leads me

by the hand

into my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She says nothing,

sits heavily

on my unkempt bed.

“Erin,” she says,

her voice flat,

dry as a desert.

I raise my eyebrows

in response.

“That was Dr. Hedrick

on the phone.

He has your blood test results.”

“So?”

I sit next to Mom.

“They found an abnormality

in your blood.”

Mom’s face is devoid

of emotion,

a robot,

the way she gets

when she’s overwhelmed

and nearly shuts down.

“You have a very low number

of white blood cells,

so they did further testing.”

“So?” I repeat.

“Erin, Dr. Hedrick said

you’re anemic and

malnourished

and your blood pressure is low.”

Mom chokes on a mouthful

of air.

“He said you told

his nurse you want to lose weight.

How could you think that

when you’re so thin?

Dr. Hedrick said he suspects

that you’re anorexic.

He wants you to see

a psychiatrist.”

Mom takes a deep breath.

“Erin,” she says,

“why didn’t you tell me

you have an eating disorder?”

My eyes get big

and my mouth hangs open.

“Because I don’t!”

Mom nods, buries her face

in her hands,

and

for a moment,

a nanosecond maybe,

I wish she would throw her arms

around my neck,

bury her face

in my hair,

instead of her own hands.

“I’m so ashamed,” Mom says.

“How could I

have missed it?

You’re so thin,

you eat so little.

Am I blind?”

“I can’t have anorexia,

Mom,” I say,

with anger in my voice.

“I eat a lot.

Too much!

I’m fine.”

Mom continues to nod,

her face still hidden

beneath her hands.

I see her pain

but do not feel it.

“Madison Garcia went

to a clinic

for anorexia

in seventh grade,

remember?” I say.

“They forced her to eat,

like,

twenty thousand calories a day.”

Mom shakes her head.

“I remember Madison.

She nearly starved herself

to death.

That clinic saved her life.

And they did not force feed her

twenty thousand calories a day.

She ate a normal diet,

I remember talking with her mother.”

“Well, she ended up looking

like an eggplant,” I say.

“She gained so much weight,

she had to buy a whole new wardrobe.

She said all her underwear hiked

up her butt,

and she had to start wearing

an underwire.

She was thirteen!

And about three hundred pounds!

No way, Mom,

there’s no way,

no

way

that I am seeing

a psychiatrist.”

Yuck

I suddenly feel nauseous

and run

to the bathroom just

in time

to hurl twelve ounces

of diet soda

into the toilet.

God, it’s gross!

Mom holds my hair,

strokes my back,

soothingly,

calmly,

lovingly.

“Madison Garcia went

from emaciated

to a healthy weight,”

Mom says.

“She did not weigh

three hundred pounds.”

“I am not going to get fat,” I say,

ignoring Mom’s comment.

I fall back

on my bed,

begin to cry,

quietly at first,

and then pain comes gushing out

in great heaving sobs,

a loud wail,

pathetic, but so real,

like an injured animal

acting only

on instinct.

“We’ll have to tell Dad,”

Mom says,

her voice a monotone

as she lies next to me,

rests her head

against my back.

“What’s the point?” I ask,

resentment oozing

out of every pore

in my body.

“He won’t care.

Anyway, I’m never going back

to Dr. Hedrick,

and I’m not seeing

any other doctor.

Let’s just forget

Dr. Hedrick’s call,

pretend nothing happened.”

“This is serious!”

Mom barks

into the stale air.

I turn to see

her face stricken,

yet I still don’t feel

her pain.

“And it’s not all

about you,”

Mom says.

“You are my baby,

and you are not going to

continue hurting yourself.

Do you hear me?

Do you?”

I nod,

cowed

by Mom’s sudden fury.

Mom’s standing now.

“Dr. Hedrick said that

anorexia explains

your fainting at MK’s party.

He said you could be

in serious danger,

of heart failure,

osteoporosis,

infertility.

You’ve already lost

muscle mass.”

Mom tap-taps

out of my room

and I close my eyes,

inhale,

try to keep anger

from making me scream.

Dad

An hour later,

we’re sitting

around the kitchen table,

Mom, Dad, and me,

sitting and talking

about what Mom calls

“vitamin and mineral deficiencies.”

“She’s also anemic

and has severely

low blood sugar,”

Mom says.

She stretches her hand

out

toward Dad,

but he just nods and stares

out the window,

and I realize that even though

I don’t know him very well,

I know he isn’t thinking,

I can’t stand to lose my baby girl.

He’s probably thinking,

I hope the Bears win

the Super Bowl this year.

His mind is a million miles away.

Mom continues.

“Dr. Hedrick gave me the name

of a psychiatrist,

said he’s the best

in the city,

specializes

in eating disorders.

We have an appointment

for tomorrow morning.”

I hear Mom’s words

but feel nothing,

probably

because I know

I’m not doing any of it –

no psychiatrist,

no counseling,

no rehab.

Book details

AUTHOR NAME: Ann K. Morris

BOOK TITLE: Thin

GENRE: Literary Fiction

SUBGENRE: Young Adult Fiction / Poetry

PAGE COUNT: 288