Before going to the bathroom I stood at the top of the stairs and listened. I could hear Mom and Ape Face laughing together. Who knew “Group of Frogs” was a freaking comedy?
In the bathroom I drank a glass of water as fast as I could. I lifted the toilet seat and stuck my fingers down my throat, so far down my middle knuckle was touching that little wiggly piece in the back. I felt my stomach contract hard and my shoulders hunch up to my ears. Abracadabra, out came the Doritos, the Fig Newtons, the milk, the pasta, the chicken cacciatore.
Just like magic.
Later, my mother knocked on the door. “Isabelle? May I come in?”
“It’s a free country,” I said. I was lying in bed with A Separate Peace, this book we’re reading for English.
“A Separate Peace?” Mom said. “That’s one of my favorites. Have you gotten to the part where Finny shows Gene the tree?”
“I’m only on chapter one,” I said.
“Oh. Well, I didn’t ruin anything for you by telling you that. But the tree does become an important symbol in the novel. Let me know when you get there, and we can discuss it.”
“Uh-huh.” I picked the book back up and pretended to be very busy reading.
“Isabelle.” My mother sat down on the edge of the bed and took the book right out of my hand.
“I’m reading!”
“Well, I’m talking.”
I looked at the ceiling with my eyeballs. My mother could talk all night and still not say a thing.
She reached out to grab a loose thread hanging from my pajama sleeve. She twisted the thread around her finger, yanked. “So. How was it today?”
“How was what?”
“Group therapy.”
“It’s called Group, Mom.”
“Okay. How was Group?”
“Fine.”
“Did you find it helpful?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, give it some time.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept looking at the ceiling, thinking about my stash in the closet, how it was getting low.
I felt my mother shifting on the bed. I knew she wanted me to tell her I was fine. In her head she was probably saying, How did I get one normal daughter and one screwup?
Well, guess what your screwup was doing while you were downstairs planning Ape Face’s fabulous writing career?
“I need a blank book,” I said. “You know, a journal. For next Wednesday.”
“Oh?” said my mother. I could hear a little smile in her voice. “You’ll be writing in Group? Great! We’ll pick one up this weekend.”
Yippee.
I felt her look at me, then away, then at me again.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Isabelle,” she said. “It’s just . . . well, lots of girls your age begin worrying about their weight. When in fact it’s natural that their bodies start carrying extra fat.”
“Whatever,” I said. It gave me the creeps the way she said that. Carrying extra fat. Like I had a backpack full of butter instead of books.
“Anyway,” Mom continued, “if you’re worried about it, how about trying to eat more fruits and veggies? Less junk? We could probably all do to cut back on our calories around here, eat some healthier meals.” She patted her stomach and smiled. “Your mother included.”
I looked at her, raised an eyebrow.
“There are much less dangerous ways to lose weight than making yourself throw up, Isabelle. How does that sound? We could do it together. Okay?”
I knew she wanted me to say okay more than anything. It didn’t even matter if the okay was a lie.
I didn’t say anything.
“Isabelle? Please. I want to help.”
“Um . . . ,” I said, like I was thinking it over. “Sure.”
“Great! I’ll do the grocery shopping tomorrow. I’ll go to Whole Foods, even.”
“Great,” I said, feeling terrible.
When she leaned over to kiss me goodnight I held my breath. Even though I’d brushed my teeth twice and rinsed with mouthwash, I didn’t want her to smell what I’d done.
In the middle of the night, I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. This happens a lot but it’s worst when I can hear Mom. Most of the time I just put my pillow over my head and hum for a while to drown her out. This time I went and stood in the hallway outside her bedroom. The light from the crack under the door made a long, skinny rectangle on the wood floor, covering the tips of my toes.
She was crying. Not loud, but loud enough. And she was saying his name, over and over again, the way she always does when she thinks we can’t hear her. Jay. Oh, Jacob. Oh, Jay.
I waited outside the door for her to stop crying. But she didn’t.
“Mom?” I whispered. “Mommy? . . . Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer, but I know she heard me. I know because the light went out right away, and everything was silent.
“Mom?”
I waited a while longer. I waited even though I knew she wouldn’t answer, no matter how long I stood there.
Finally I left. I didn’t even try to be quiet. I didn’t tip-toe, I walked like a normal person down the hall, down the stairs, across the living room to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the refrigerator.
Bread and butter, pasta salad, string cheese, strawberry yogurt, applesauce, more bread and butter, cold leftover pizza, olives, peanut butter straight out of the jar. I ate until my cheeks hurt, until the skin of my belly was stretched tight like a drum. Then I opened a brand-new carton of orange juice and drank the entire thing, standing up. Orange juice ran down my chin and onto the front of my nightgown. It dripped onto my bare feet. Every swallow hurt, but I didn’t care. After a while, it almost feels good, the hurting.
The first time it happened was the day of Daddy’s funeral. Our house was full of strangers, all of them patting my head, talking in whispers. Every so often my mother would come over to me and April and squeeze the breath out of us with her hugs. “Don’t cry,” she kept saying. “We will none of us cry.” Finally some
