Elena Vanishing (28 page)

She wishes she weren't your mother
, says the voice in my head.
She wishes you weren't her child.

“I'm sorry you got stuck with me,” I say.

“THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M SAYING!” Mom yells at the top of her lungs.

Which means, of course, that she's lost the argument.

They're all giving up on you
, says the voice in my head as I watch the cars go by.
First the care team gave up on you and pushed you into outpatient treatment. Now she's giving up on you, too.

I don't have an answer for that.

After a couple of minutes, Mom breaks the silence again. “I can't take much more of this,” she says. “You're an adult. I'm not here to set rules for you. So think hard before you tell me again that you want to leave treatment. The next time I hear it, I'm packing the car.”

She's given up. They've all given up. It's just you and me again. Fine—we'll be able to handle things ourselves, like we always do.

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine,” Mom says. “Just so you know.”

We stop by Walgreens on the way home because it's right next to the orphanage. We've spent a lot of money here in the last two months. Mom buys almond M&M's today, which means she's feeling sorry for herself.

Weak-willed grazer!
says the voice in my head.

But I'm trying to be nice to Mom, so I make an effort. We walk the aisles and chat for a bit. I talk her into trying a facial mask. Mom's woefully basic when it comes to skin care.

“Hey, can I buy a couple of little makeup things for Sam?” I say. “She's asked me to show her some makeup tricks.”

I know this will appeal to Mom because she knows about Sam's parents. Sure enough, she immediately agrees.

Back in our room. I'm feeling surprisingly wakeful and clear-headed. Then I remember. Because of the cut, we forgot my pills this morning.

Shit! I have no idea if anything I'm doing is making me better or worse!

Mom curls up with her computer and watches an episode of
Lost
. I work on a poem:

And I know, I know
you don't want to read this.

And I know
that I am screaming at a world that is too full
to hold anything else.

So I will cram this paper into a crack,
and I will map out my confusion inside
until someone can make me understand
the dance
I cannot stop following.

Then I take my evening pills and fall headlong into sleep. For tonight, at least, they keep the monsters away.

Next morning, Sam is thrilled to get her makeup. She sits down with me, and I show her in the little compact mirror how to put on the eye shadow and use the blush brush.

“You're my big sister,” she gushes, throwing her arms around me.

“No PDA!” calls Ms. Carter from the kitchen.

“I'm proud to be your big sister, beautiful girl,” I tell her. “You know I promised to help you pick out your prom dress.”

But when Brenda calls me into her office a few minutes later, I can see that she's really angry.

“Elena,” she says, “Sam's therapist tells me you gave Sam an inappropriate gift.”

What did you do?
says the voice in my head.
What did you screw up?

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“You know how fragile Sam's self-image is, Elena. What on earth were you thinking, giving her makeup?”

You screwed up! What were you thinking, you little shit?

“I was doing something nice!”

“It crossed the line,” Brenda says.

You're out of your box, bitch! Stay in your box! You're just a patient to them. It's not like they care.

“For your information,” I say, “Sam isn't just a patient. She's also—in case you hadn't noticed—a teenage girl! She's been begging me to help her with makeup for weeks, and the eye shadow made her day.”

Brenda's eyes narrow. “This isn't about making somebody's day.”

Yeah, stupid bitch! You're not somebody. You're nobody! All you mean to this woman is a paycheck.

“No, it isn't about making somebody's day, is it?” I say. “No, it sure as hell is
not
. You asshole therapists sit in judgment of us. All we are to you is sick. We're not
people
. All we are is a
case
.”

“Now you're overreacting.”

Don't react, bitch! You don't deserve to have feelings!

“Am I overreacting? Well, how about this, then? How about I've been complaining for weeks that these drugs are sucking the life out of me, and all you people do is up the dose! How about when I say I'm having a good day, you tell me I'm getting better, and when I say I'm having a bad day, you tell me this just takes time. Well, maybe what's going on is that you're screwing up with me! Did you ever stop to think about
that
?”

But Brenda isn't Mom. She's too well trained to get dragged into an argument. She says, “You'll just have to trust us, Elena.”

You can't trust her. She's a quack! They've already screwed you up.

“Trust you? I've been trusting you quacks for six months!” I shout. “And what do I have to show for it? Nothing!”

“This isn't about you right now,” Brenda says. “We're talking about Sam. Sam's therapist thinks your close relationship with her
is having a negative impact on her therapy. We need you to rethink your contact.”

Your contact? What the hell?

“My
what
?”

“No, no, no, I don't mean anything bad,” Brenda says. “But you
are
so distrustful of us, and Sam is starting to pick up on it. It's changing how she views us. Her therapist thinks it's slowing down her progress.”

It turns out that I can feel after all. I feel the blood heat up my face. I'm staring at Brenda, but all I can hear are the housemothers at the boarding school:
Elena has a negative effect on the other children. She's a bad influence.

Loser! Loser! Loser! I told you they don't care. They care about every other patient but you!

“I'm done here,” I say. And I stand up.

“Sit down!” Brenda says with a smile. “You're overreacting again. Of course we know you're not a bad person, and of course we're glad you're friends with Sam. But her therapy has to come first, you know that, right? Elena! Where are you going? Come back here!”

But I'm walking out the door.

I stop in the main room to put on my shoes. There's a halo of red light around everything I see. People are talking to me, but I can't hear them over the heartbeat in my ears. My hands shake as I dig the cell phone out of my basket.

“That's it, Mom,” I say when she answers the phone. “That's it. Pack the car. We're going home.”

It's the end of September. Two and a half months have gone by since I
stormed out of Clove House. I'm sitting in class, and I am trying desperately to stay awake. Listening to the lecture isn't an option. I have no idea what the professor is saying. I just want to avoid the embarrassment of nodding off and cracking my chin on the desk.

I open my notebook and write,

So. I purge every meal.

I purge every drink.

I cut the shit out of my legs.

I cough blood.

My heart is getting worse.

I'm on eleven meds.

And I. Don't. Care.

The numbness of the drugs is producing a kind of frenzy inside me. I don't sleep deeply anymore, but I can't stay awake, either. Physical pain sobers me up, but only for a few minutes. Then I sink back into apathy. It takes energy to fight the voice in my head. I don't have energy, so I don't fight anymore.

I think about yesterday's weigh-in at the nutritionist's office. She congratulated me on how well I was doing.

If she only knew!

So. I have two ankle weights and 2 small dumbbells I tape to my legs. I have a waistband of Cling Wrap with coins superglued on it. I have a push-up bra filled with BB pellets where the gel inserts are supposed to be.

I have fishing weights on the inside of my jeans, inside of my belt, as many as will fit in my shoes.

I frown and blink at the paper in front of me. A worry begins to nibble inside.

What will I do next week to add more weight?

The sports jock at the desk next to mine is waving his fingers to get my attention. I glance over, and he slides his notebook across to me. He's written
DO U KNOW WHERE I CAN SCORE SOME BLOW.

So that's what I look like to him. I don't look beautiful. I look like a skinny, coked-out drug addict.

You were never beautiful
, says the voice in my head.
And you're still too fat.

I shake my head at the student that no, I can't help him find his cocaine. I reread what I've written. Then I sum it up:

I have lost 30 pounds.

They think I'm fine.

I'm not.

It's only been a couple of months since I left treatment, and I'm worse off than before. I can't bear to eat, and even when I'm willing
to try, my abused stomach and digestive tract can't take it. The only thing six months of treatment did for me was show me how strong my anorexia is. Now that I know I'm helpless, it's eating me alive.

The phone sitting on my desk lights up. It's a message from Sam.

elena i got a bus ticket to texas if i show up can i stay with u

I grab the phone and text back:

Call you in 5 minutes.

Class ends. Sam and I talk as I head across campus to my car. In the weeks since she had to leave the treatment center, things have fallen apart for her, too. She's already been bounced back and forth between her parents a couple of times. Now they're starting to talk about foster care. She's terrified. If her parents don't want her, how much worse will strangers be?

“I can sneak away,” she tells me, her young voice eager. “They won't look for me because they'll be glad I'm gone.”

“It won't work,” I say. “It's really dangerous, for a start. You shouldn't be traveling alone. Besides, Mom can't let you stay with us. She could be accused of kidnapping you.”

Sam pleads with me, and I've never felt so horrible.

You're a loser. You're failing her. You're failing!

“I wouldn't care if it was me,” I tell her, “but I don't have my own place.”

Now she's crying. Tough little Sam—nothing makes her cry! More than anything, I wish I could be there for her, but here I am, letting her down.

You always let everybody down
, says the voice in my head.

“I'm not going to make it till I'm eighteen,” Sam says, and I cringe at the sincerity in her voice. “Elena, I don't want to die. I don't! But I can't make it like this.”

After she hangs up, I sit down on the steps of a building and cry. I don't even care that people can see me. It's not like they see perfection these days anyway.

One girl sets down her books and fishes a tissue out of her purse. I wipe my face and smile a thank-you.

“You've got cancer, don't you?” she asks me in a low voice. “Is it the chemo? Is it bad?”

I pick up my backpack and walk away.

There was a time when I calmed myself with dreams of purifying fire. I thought my body would melt away like breath off a mirror. Now I know: there's no beauty in what's happening to my body. But what good does it do me to know that?

My teeth are crumbling. All the baking soda in the world can't save them. My voice is hoarse, and my nose burns all the time now from the acid. My eyes are dull, my skin is rough and patchy, and my hair is falling out.

Nobody envies me anymore. Nobody asks, “How do you do it?”

They see a loser
, says the voice in my head.
They see a freak. No matter how bad you think you look, just remember that what they see is even worse.

When I get home, baby Gemma scrambles across the floor with a happy squeal to greet me. She's crawling now, and my parents' mature, overstuffed living room has all but disappeared under a jumble of bright plastic toys. A big picture of Clint in his blue uniform sits on the piano. He's finished basic training, but he still has to go to tech school before he and Valerie can be together again.

“Hey, Miss Mascara,” Valerie says cheerfully.

Shit! My makeup must be all over my face.

I plop Gemma down in front of a red plastic centipede that's supposed to teach her the alphabet and hurry off to our messy bathroom. It's absurd that I care what Valerie thinks. Why would that still matter? But it's just one more habit that's too strong to break.

There's nowhere to step in the bathroom. Discarded jeans and wadded T-shirts lie all over the floor in a welter of baby toys and creams and boxes of wipes. The counter has disappeared under makeup containers and stained cotton balls.

Dylan's fish tank is no longer there. He got fin rot while Mom and I were gone. By the time we got home, he couldn't be saved. That beautiful blue spark of life, gone out.

Life doesn't last
, says the voice in my head.
Death is the only thing that lasts. Fires go out, but winter stays for a long time.

I am brushing my teeth to get the stink out of my mouth when Mom comes to the door. “Supper's at six,” she says.

My stomach immediately contracts.

“I'm going to a study group,” I say. “We have a big exam.” Anything to avoid eating.

You do?
says the voice in my head.
You liar!

“You do?” asks Mom. “So early in the semester?”

“They're piling on the work,” I mutter. “Oh, school, how I hate thee.”

There's a small silence. I turn to find Mom staring.

“What?” I ask defensively, checking the mirror again. The mascara's fixed. I look better. Right?